No one tells it all

It is taking me a while to do this post, as I keep mulling it around in my head. It springs from  In this life's post, replying to a reader's comment chiding her for her comments about missing her offspring. I take up her comment that in blogging no one tells it all. And indeed we don't. We tell a a lot, but our writings are edited, for many, many reasons.

I wanted to comment on this post but could not summon up a considered response, and therefore thought to write a post of my own.  The on-line debate continued, but Isabelle has asked for no further comments, and thus I will pursue my thoughts here. Even though they are probably not particularly original, I wanted to disentangle and explicate some of my reactions.

In blogging we tell our stories. If the unvarnished and full accounts are to be written, it would be in a diary. But warts and all in a blog? No. Thus both strengths and weaknesses are revealed in this combination of public/private discourse.

You never know who reads, or who knows about our situations. I do not talk about my children's lives, other than in the most general terms, as our lives and relationships are our own business, and I know that casual remarks can be quite wounding. So I am careful about what I write.

  

There are things and emotions I do not express in my blog, or which I express in a cautious or guarded fashion. I guard and edit to protect myself, but, candidly, also to not display my worst and most negative and self-pitying characteristics. Generally I want to show myself in a positive light. But I also want to complain, to moan and groan from time to time. I tell no lies: but I tell my own truth. But the whole truth, all the nitty-gritty? No, I do not.

There were many times when I was tempted to write more about Dr P and the step-family, especially in the first year after his death, during which I endured an intensely stressful and difficult legal battle. Generally I tried to write with balance, and with some degree of impartiality. And, having spent months preparing affidavits, setting out in minute and documented details all the particulars of my life, my marriage, my relationships, my family, my finances, and having had to rebut lies designed to put me in a negative light,  to criticise and denigrate my character, enough is enough. It is time for me to look to the future rather than to wallow in the past. While at times I want to hit out, to flail, to reproach, I do try not to do so. There are times when it is best for me to just shut up.

I am now trying to recover, to rebuild my life, to be able to enjoy the good things, and to overcome the bad, the deprivations and disappointments. It is not easy. Thus from time to time I express things in my blog. To do so helps me to cope and to think again, to meditate, and, I hope, to be positive rather than negative. Blogging has expanded my world,  brought me into contact with many other soul mates. We are not alone, but reach out to each other. And the world keeps turning.

A trough full of electric cords, sanding machines and many spatulas

Evidently it does not occur to builders that houses contain items for everyday household use. Rather, they are there to enable builders to accommodate all the things they do not want to lug to and fro each day.

Thus, in addition to my not having much use of the kitchen, the kitchen bench, or being able to find things, let alone cook things, and having to traipse from room to room in order to get the milk or anything else from the refrigerator, it does not occur to Fernando that perhaps I might want to use my laundry trough. Kitchen knives and other cutlery are handy tools for this and that, my nicest mugs are seized to serve as containers, and my good face washer has been ruined because he used it to mop up the glue. Why he could not have used Dr P's old underpants I cannot tell. Or ask whether there are any old things he can use.

Apparently in the UK people say 'Mustn't grumble.' I cannot entirely adopt this sentiment as a modus vivandi. Or as an overall philosophy. Indeed, I feel very much impelled to grumble, especially as there seems little point in venturing to complain outright, for whereas he might stop doing one thing, he is very likely to do something similar. I am reminded of issuing reprimands to small children, only to provoke the protesting cry. "You never told us not to do that' they bleated, in injured tones. Well, it never occurred to me (or to other rational parents) that they might think up doing whatever it was. Such are our failures of imagination.

And so it seems to be with builders.

Well, I/we have come to the end of week seven and week eight is by no means certain to end it all.
Mustn't grumble, though. He took off all the window handles, door locks etc, and put them all back on before heading off for the long weekend. (Fittingly enough, Monday is a Public Holiday for Labour Day.) He is taking the family up the coast, and I will sit amidst the encircling gloom. Before he finished for the day Fernando put all the handles and locks back on all the doors and windows. This was a Good Thing.

Undercoats of paint have now been applied and the next decision to be made is whether to go along with Fernando's original suggestion of off-white ,or for his latest choice of white. I think it will be white.

The cities of Melbourne and Sydney are in the midst of a popular frenzy as all the footy finals are to be played tomorrow. Sydney has a team in the AFL final, which used to be a Melbourne team.

While I quite like AFL, and detest the NSW rugby games, I cannot get very excited about footy. Being neither an Eldest Child, not the First Boy, as a child I was low in the pecking order, and very seldom actually got taken to a football game. And so I lost interest. Dr P ruled the selection of TV viewing, and arguing about sport never seemed to be worth the effort. But perhaps I might watch the AFL tomorrow. It depends on whatever else might be available.

My evening was enlivened by the TV revelation that the British Prime Minister did not know who had written Rule Britannia. Neither did I, but it somehow never blighted my life. But I do know about Magna Carta.

And on and on..

Fernando sanded down all the doors and windows, having done the walls yesterday. It was not too noisy, and I hope it was not too difficult for the practice next door. One's tolerance of noise seems to vary as the experience continues. I spent some time this morning cleaning the windows and dusting down the flyscreens.

I had not expected Fernando this week, as he'd talked of going away for a week, but by now I dare not allow any possible completion date to winkle its way into my mind. Avaunt, I tell such thoughts. We had to get the sanders/sealers back, as they had used white putty sort of stuff as fillers, and they were obvious. Apparently it was easy enough to fix, which made me wonder why they had not done so in the first place. Ah me!

Fernando has done a lot of sanding and filling, so as to paint it all, and this raised vast quantities of dust, so much that it set off the smoke alarm. He managed to turn it off, but not the flashing alarm light outside. My technological knowledge and ignorance, not to mention fear and loathing, is considerable. I came out of choir this evening to find a message from the neighbour across the road, as the light was flashing into their children's bedroom. I telephoned the security firm and they talked me through it, but I am consumed by guilt and shame at my technological deficiencies. Really, you should be able to grow out of being a total sook. It is time I grew up. All the same, those security systems are horrible things, and are all too likely to reduce me to a quivering pulp. And it has been the case that every time I manage to clean off some of the dust and grime, even more comes and covers absolutely everything.

All these (relatively trivial) experiences seem to drive out sustained thoughts about more serious matters. The weekend was rather quiet. Choir practice took up most of Saturday, and on Sunday I wandered up to the market and came home with another couple of books. One is by David Crystal, entitled By hook or by crook: a journey in search of English.  I am dipping in and out of it, and came across an account of writing something in which every word starts with the same letter. Slowly started, simply, soon sampling seriously sustained sentences, synopsis of Shakespeare's Hamlet. Simply staggering.

And very entertaining!

Margaret Atwood has written several children's books using this technique. I have two of them and they invariably make me chortle. They are Rude Ramsay and the Roaring Radishes and Bashful Bob and Doleful Dorinda.

I used to read them to my grandchildren and gave them copies. The other book, which I have never been able to find, is Princess Prunella and the Purple Pea. The books came with a CD of Margaret Atwood reading them aloud.

Just so as to distract myself from thoughts of building noises, security systems and other technical matters, I quote the final paragraph of Rude Ramsay.

So while the raccoons, rabbits, robins wrens and raggedy ravens all roosting on the ramparts cheered, Ramsay, Rillah, and Ralph the red-nosed rat crawled back through the Roman-vaulted rat-hole...and romped riotously among the roses, beside the rippling river, under the radiant rainbow.

What I need now is some escapist literature/reading matter, and some soothing music. And a glass of wine.

The cracked record

That is what I feel like to myself. I could rant on and on about the dust and chaos in the house and the fact that it will be another couple of weeks before it is finished, because Fernando wants a week's holiday, etcetera, but I sound like one of those aggravating cracked records and there is only myself to lift up the needle and to get it playing again.

I know that there are people in the world who do not know about records, and how they got scratched and therefore hiccupped in the same spot until manually moved on. Now I don't suppose I want anyone to come and manually move me on, and thus I have to think electronically and select another track. Perhaps it is only going to play the same sort of music. So beware.

I am just back home from having a meal at a restaurant with a friend. We were all set to finish the meal with a raspberry gelato, but the main courses were too large for us to manage anything else, and thus such delights must wait for another day.

This morning I went to the knitting and crochet group, which was fun. From time to time people wander in and observe us.  Today a woman came in with her small daughter, as the daughter is interested in learning to knit. They seemed suitably impressed. Perhaps one day someone can teach me to knit. However the delights of crochet are being transmitted, and now the squares are being joined by crochet. I have, after all, achieved something in my life.

I had all sorts of intentions for the rest of the day, but it was swallowed up by this and that. I changed the sheets this morning and put them on the clothesline. Mine is a very tiny back garden and my bed is a king size one, and thus the king size sheets do not fit properly on the line. Off I went to the knitting group, and then down came the rain, which naturally interferes considerably with the drying process.

Being increasingly bad-tempered about the dirt and grime, I set about trying to clean up the kitchen. Oh dearie me! what a task, and much scrubbing was required. Of course I have no idea whether there will be yet another layer of dust once things get sanded down for the painting.

But hey, as they say, I was not even going to talk about that. It just slipped out and typed itself, even if the typing did require some editing and corrections.

Last night I went to a concert performance of Monteverdi's L'Orfeo, performed by our wonderful Brandenburg Orchestra. The music is sublime and the singing quite beautiful, excellent and gorgeous. I share and understand all that grief and loss, even though I don't quite understand how Orfeo let poor Euridice wander through the grass and get bitten by the snake. He should have been there with her, beating the grass and driving out all the snakes and other nasty beasties, instead of blathering on, ever so musically, about how much he loved her.

But that's men for you! And the legend has given the world such wonderful words and music over the ages.

Stinging eyes

Back home from an agreeable time at the opera discussion group,  where luscious music from Gounod's Faust was played, followed by lunch with a friend, my eyes are now stinging and my nose protesting from the strong smell of the substance used to seal the new floors. Round One. Round Two is tomorrow.

I may have to migrate.

I can't get into the kitchen or dining room, so it will be hunting and gathering at the local takeaways tonight.  Last night I slept very badly, for fear of sleeping in, as the sanding and polishing firm was to turn up at 7.30 am . Once that is all done, then there is some repainting. Perhaps it will all be finished by the end of the week, but it is surely unwise to say this out loud.  At least the firm this morning stuck up drop sheets all over the place, and what a pity this did not not happen during the last five weeks.

Just as well I had the opera study group to go to.

I took my crochet along, as is my wont, and I must say that doing crochet is a wonderful icebreaker and conversation piece. The crochet clinic was yesterday, which is all good clean fun, and I rewarded myself with an ice cream afterwards. There is a great fellowship in handcrafts and making things. but what is the female word of fellowship?  Fellowship sounds very blokey. I want a nice female word.

I left the house early so as not to get into the way of the workers, and thus had a slow trip across the city in hideous traffic. I sat in the car, waiting for it to be time to go into the hall for the talk.  Then my sister rang me, and we talked for some time,  which made my phone battery almost flat.  As I drove home this afternoon, it occurred to me that I had left my mobile phone charger in the kitchen, and thus could not get to it.  I drove over to the nearest set of shops, bought new chargers, as well as two books for $5 each, and some sliced ham to nibble should midnight starvation afflict me tonight or tomorrow night. Perhaps the prospect of the fumes addled my reason, as one book is on fabric painting and decoration, and all I can say in my defence is that I must be a cock-eyed optimist, and/or be completely divorced from both reality and probability. The other is on the Sun King's Garden, and while it is of fairly modest interest, surely for a mere $5 you can't go wrong.

Now a blowfly has come in through the open door upstairs. And where is the fly spray?

Downstairs in the kitchen. As is my little sharp knife. How will I slice the cheese?

The floors look very convincingly wet, but promise to look good.

PS - amazing scenes

Here is an update.

I went into the lane this morning and took photos of the rubbish. A bit later, before setting off to take my car to get serviced, I checked the lane again. The kids were all there. I took a photo and called out to them that I was checking the amount of rubbish they left. I said 'Do you think you could pick it all up and put it in a bin somewhere?' They called back, 'Yes, we'll pick it all up." 'Thanks, that's great', I said.

After dropping off the car, I went back into the lane to see what, if anything, had happened. The rubbish was (mostly) gone.

Wow!

Can this last?

Now I want to talk to them and find out more about their pre and after school feeding hebits. Dare I?

Week five: looking forward to sawdust-less life

The completion of the works is tantalisingly within sight, but, like a mirage, recedes on close scrutiny. Further necessary works present themselves. The prospect of these makes my heart thump alarmingly, even though the daily litany of what happens next ought, by now,  to have prepared me. Partly I suffer from an ignorance of building techniques. Suddenly I discover that when you get doors painted you need oil based paints. The rest can be water based paints. It is tempting to do what was done in the past, thus causing me so much angst and so much money, and just to opt for the cheapest option. But I say to myself, sternly, that fixing things properly does give me freedom of choice. And I need freedom of choice. Who knows what will happen next, what blows of fate may yet rise up to strike me?

Sanding and sealing are booked in for Monday, as we enter week six. I hope we will not need week seven. The second set of steps might be completed tomorrow. At the end of each day, the amount of sawdust is staggering. I feel the house will never be clean.

However, yesterday I cooked some Anzac biscuits and took them along to choir, it being the first sopranos' turn to do tea duty. They all got eaten. Not even a crumb remained. And tonight I cooked myself some dinner, having first wiped all the sawdust off the hotplates.

Despite my attempts to maintain cheerfulness and tranquillity, I am tempted to throw my weight about. The local school children sit in the lane, eating, drinking and smoking before they arrive at school. I am very tempted to go and take photos of them, and of all the mess, butts, drink and food containers that they leave in the lane. Then, I may perhaps send them to the school. Who do they think cleans up all this mess, and who collects all their rubbish? Do their (unfortunate) mothers follow them around so to do? I fear not.

Actually I would rather like to talk to them and to discover whether they eat breakfast before they set off for school, and how much money they spend each day on the way to and from school. Certainly the local shops do a brisk trade in Slushies, and other takeaway food etc after school. I am quite curious as to how much is spent by families each day and week on takeaway food and drinks. So many of the children are eating on their way to school. Why is this so?

Tomorrow my car gets serviced. There was some shuddering of the brakes on the trips to and from Canberra, and the service is overdue anyway.

The local climate fluctuated dramatically today. Just like real life.