The Restless One

I'm feeling a bit restless at the moment. Probably because I'm waiting to start a new job, which always makes one feel a bit antsy. And probably because I'd revved myself up for moving house and now, because we aren't (thanks to the magical disappearing faffers), I have a lot of 'change of space' energy nagging to go somewhere. And possibly because I watched the first episode of 'The Day of the Triffids' last night, which, I felt, turned into a poor pastiche of 'Survivors' and took far too many liberties with the original book.

So yesterday I spent a fair amount of time mooching around the house thinking, what can I do to this place to make it feel like we HAVE moved house, even though we haven't. Re-decorating is the obvious starting point. And I do like a bit of painting and wall-papering. And having converted my writing room temporarily into a dining room over Christmas, I'm rather inclined to start in there. Maybe turn it into the main living room and move my study space into the current living room, well, it's bigger, my writing room, so makes sense to shift things in there, especially as Andy has gone a bit 'Wii Fit Plus-tastic' at the moment and needs extra flailing space in front of the telly.

The carpet is the same one that was here when we moved in 5 years ago. Could do with changing 1) because it's getting a bit flat, and 2) it's a horrid peachy colour that I've never really liked. The walls have never been decorated to our tastes. I think it was because they are a neutral, inoffensive colour, and as the room doesn't see much traffic the walls have stayed at that stage where you look at them periodically and think, shall I repaint them? Nah, they'll do for a while longer.

'We can do it for you, guv,' says Mrs Miggins. 'We're good at decorating. Mrs Pumphrey has got a diploma in interior design.'

I think back to the time when the hens decorated the dining hall in the Manor a la Rococco style. They did a good job, I seem to remember, even though Pumphrey got stuck to the pasting table at one point.

'Okay,' I say. 'Come in and give me a few ideas. And please do not start calling me 'guv.'
'Okay dokey, matey,' says Mrs Miggins. 'I'll call the team. Put the kettle on, we'll be back in a mo for a cup of brew.'

I ought to explain at this point that Mrs Miggins tends to lapse into the 'Mockney cockney' vernacular at this time of year, due to eating too many pies, watching non-stop Mary Poppins repeats on ITV2, and re-starting her laying after her moult, which must be a bit of a cor blimey moment for any hen after they've had a couple of months off egg-laying duty.

The hens gather in my writing room. Mrs Miggins has a pencil tucked behind her ear, Mrs Pumphrey is wearing an over-sized Biba smock and Mrs Slocombe is wrestling with a retractable tape measure that is refusing to retract.

'What's your vision for this room?' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'I don't know, really,' I say. 'Something a bit less bland, I suppose. A bit more, well, striking.'

Mrs Miggins sucks in her breath. She leads me gently by the elbow to the window.

'Don't tell Pumphrey you want 'striking',' she warns. 'Striking is only one step short of flamboyant on her paint chart. You've got to be specific, or she'll go crazy with artistic intent.'
'Right,' I say.

'When you say 'striking,' says Mrs Pumphrey, taking a notebook from her smock pocket, 'do you mean 'flamboyant striking' or 'silence-inducing striking?'
'How do you mean, 'silence-inducing striking?' I say.
'Well,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'You know when you see a piece of art, or architecture for example and you are struck dumb by its appearance?'
'Are we talking esoteric beauty dumb or Tate Modern dumb?' I say.
'Tate Modern,' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'In that case, I'm after flamboyant striking,' I say.
'Good-o,' says Mrs Pumphrey.

There is a crash behind us as Mrs Slocombe trips over her tape measure and into the piano.
'Is that staying in here?' asks Mrs Miggins.
'The piano?' I say. 'Yes, it is.'
'Only it doesn't work,' says Mrs Miggins, and she lifts the lid and plays a few dud notes of 'The Entertainer' just to prove her point.
'It just needs tuning,' I say. 'I'm getting it done because my resolution for 2010 is to learn to play the piano properly.'
'With both hands, you mean,' says Mrs Miggins.
'With both hands,' I say.
'I can play piano,' says Mrs Slocombe, who has struggled free from the tape measure and thrown it in a ball in the corner of the room.
'Really?' I say. 'Is there no end to the talents of my chickens?'
'I hope not,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Or you'll have sod all to write about next year.'

At this point, Mrs Pumphrey lets out a short squeal, and collapses in a heap onto the sofa.
'Good grief!' I say. 'Is she all right?'
'She's having a creative genius epiphany,' says Mrs Miggins. 'She'll need tea and biscuits when she comes to,' she adds, pointedly. 'Muffins, if you've got them.'

We stand, holding our breath, watching Mrs Pumphrey, who is glazed of eye and swaying like Tango Pete on an off-day with his choreography.
'What's she muttering about?' I ask.

Mrs Miggins presses her ear to Mrs Pumphrey's beak.

'She's talking about magenta and Persian rugs and authentic 18th century brocade,' she says. 'I think we'd better leave her to it and come back later.'

And so we creep from the room as Mrs Pumphrey begins to sketch frantically in her notepad.

'I only wanted a new carpet, and something a bit more cheerful on the walls,' I say. 'Powder blue egg-shell, maybe, with a feature wall of flowery wallpaper.'
'Well, why didn't you say so before she got started?' says Mrs Miggins. She does a bit of tutting and sucks in some more breath. 'Oh, you've opened the flood gates now, you numpty. If you reject Pumphrey's ideas, she'll be devastated, you know. DEVASTATED.'

I fill the kettle with water. And sigh. I'm sure it will be okay in the end. Things usually are. But why am I feeling more fidgety than before??