Time on my hands

I am confined to quarters at the moment. Two men are building some steps outside and one man is painting the kitchen. Building steps is beyond me, but until a few years ago all decorating in our house was definitely done by amateurs – namely, us. Then one day a leaking shower led to a collapsed ceiling and with the insurance money we paid people to sort it out, including the painting.  Oh, the  joy of someone else doing all the work. It was done so quickly and with so little fuss – there was no turning back after that.

I need to be at home to make sure that the bricks are positioned exactly the way I want them and that the correct colours are used to paint the pantry.  Yellow outside, blue inside, since you asked. I’m starting to feel like I’m in an episode of Changing Rooms, that wonderful 90s TV programme where friends decorated each other’s houses. Taking the lid off the paint tin was a heart-stopping moment because of the garish colour that we all knew would be revealed. Grey paint had yet to cast its pall over the world. Now I think about it, Changing Rooms might have had a lot to do with that. People’s eyes needed a break.

I used to think that endless time at home would be quite pleasant, but it is, in fact, a little dull. It’s also very hot and making me feel listless. So I am passing the time going through my suitcase of mementos that normally lives in the loft and sorting things out. It’s full of stuff that I find fascinating, but not many others would. It’s the usual baby hospital bracelets, early school reports, hand-made cards by little children, swimming badges and a certificate for climbing the Pudding Lane Monument. And an awful lot of letters.

Once we discovered email in the 90s, I barely wrote another letter. I did continue to write to elderly relations, but sadly I have so few left (in fact, I suspect that I’ve silently slipped in to take their place), I can’t remember the last time I did write a letter. These old letters are sorted by writer and I’m wondering what to do with them. I have started to read them and they do provide a window onto a different world. In fact, from this distance, it seems like a charming, naive world, but I don’t think I’ll be reading them all over again to amuse myself in my dotage.

A couple of years ago a friend showed me all the postcards I’d sent her over the years and said that she had travelled vicariously through me. They were a snapshot of my life and I would have loved them, but she wasn’t offering and I wasn’t asking. So, I’ve decided to read all these letters and then give them back to the people who wrote them. I think they’ll like them. Once that’s done, I’ll have to start listening to the half dozen cassette tapes I found in the suitcase. These aren’t full of music, but my family and friends telling me their news from afar away. Those I won’t be giving back.

I’m starting to feel like I’m drowning in the past. I’m going to march downstairs and take the lid off a paint tin to reveal the shocking yellow that I’ve chosen. I need a short sharp shock to drag me back into the present.