This is my favourite room. It's red. Carpet, curtains and recliner settee, all red. On the recently painted cream walls are hung three photographs. One is of a 12 foot sunflower in front of a stone house. A second is of Dinan a Medieval town in Brittany. The third is of a violin. On the piano are two photographs one me with two friends in France and a second me with my wonderful Bretagne neighbour who lived to be 103 years old.
Standing in a corner is the television, with video and cd player. There is a small chest of six drawers. Each of the six is packed tightly with home recorded cassette tapes. Remember those? Nearby is a book case full of CDs, DVDs and videos none of which are played now since on Utube one can listen to every piece of music ever recorded. Concertos, symphonies, jazz, the latest everything, all at the touch of a button.
But none of it gives me as much pleasure as I felt when I made music myself with my clarinet and violin which stand unused atop the now silent, out of tune piano.
Tucked away in another corner is the printer above which are placed my laptop and tablette, evidence I tell myself that I am a writer.
Best of all is my favourite red arm chair positioned by the French windows overlooking the garden which I and nature created from scratch. As I sit here in this chair which I bought in France I am reminded of the other garden. The one in France which I also created from scratch. The memories of a different time in my life. Sad memories of my lost garden maybe can be erased by this abundant, colourful little Eden. Nature heals.
I am in the living room of a Victorian Italianate monstrosity. This room has a huge curved-glass bay window, the panes of which would be difficult to replace. The windows are dressed with faded much too, short curtains. I look up at the ornate ceiling which no-one can reach nor afford to paint. I walk across the wood-worm riddled floor boards which creak and I sense ghosts.
I notice the Epstein bust on the bookcase, then the Dresden dancer under a glass dome on the marble mantelpiece. The grand oil painting of the despised, slave-trading ancestor hangs on the dirty cream wall over the settee. He stares down at me with disapproving eyes. There are tartan rugs thrown over the leather couch and armchairs. Useful occasional tables and practical footstools abound but no dust. A monstrous antique arm chair, the cause of family feuds stands in the bay window. It is a useless piece of furniture which has escaping stuffing and a protruding spring. Looking out of the impressive window one can see trees, large forest trees. Back in the room in the far corner almost un-noticed incongruously stands a television.
A Bedroom
It is a fitted bedroom. Is that a correct term. I am not sure. One wall is filled completely with two double wardrobes between which is a mirrored dressing table with multiple drawers. In front of the mirror stands a renowned example of Doulton pottery, a small pot depicting the Indian tree. Either side of this are gold and silver boxes which might tempt an observer to peep inside. They would be disappointed like the the suitors in the Merchant of Venice. There is not a lead one to reward the peeper.
On the opposite wall the five foot wide bed fits tightly between two single wardrobes with three cupboards over-head. There are light switches on each side of the wardrobes at pillow height for the overhead lights which are housed beneath the top cupboards. All the furniture is cream as is the beautiful crocheted bedcover.
Over the bed and under the cupboards are three oil paintings. One is of a large single buttercup, a second is of a large pink clover and the third is of two pink lupins. All three are in gold frames. The head board has a narrow shelf atop displaying – a Wedgewood donkey, three tiny glass elephants father, mother and baby and a small ceramic pot containing salt. You may ask what it is. People have asked assuming that it was cocaine.
There is little wall space left but what there is, is painted a delicate green. The expensive curtains of a subtle turquoise blue match ideally.
On the remaining wall hangs a large metre square collage of photographs of the owner's activities in the eighties.
There is a radiator under the window. The view through the window is of thirty year old very tall trees. There are six or seven different species. They are different shapes and colours which contrast greatly with the monochrome of the bedroom.
A visitor once remarked that she couldn't believe that she was jealous of this bedroom. Personally I prefer the view from the window of the trees which manifest the changing seasons.I am in the living room of a Victorian Italianate monstrosity. This room has a huge curved-glass bay window, the panes of which would be difficult to replace. The windows are dressed with faded much too, short curtains. I look up at the ornate ceiling which no-one can reach nor afford to paint. I walk across the wood-worm riddled floor boards which creak and I sense ghosts.
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