An Adventure in Re-purposing
One of the challenges of this whole clergy spouse malarkey is having to reinvent yourself every time your partner gets a new job. Maybe it was simpler back in the days when clergy wives (as we all were then) had an obvious role. That was the era of hire one, get one free. Your husband got a new parish, you slid in beside him to rule the new flower rota with a smile and a rod of iron. But I'm betting it wasn't that simple, even in those days.
We all have our different coping strategies when our domestic world is turned briefly upside down. Gin is an obvious one, but it has its limitations. There is also paint. Paint is safer than gin in most contexts. (The obvious exception being a gin sling.) Paint is my go to coping mechanism. Back in April of this year*, when we first came to look round the new house, I had a brief crisis in the kitchen. It had a built-in dresser. 'But where will I put MY dresser?' I wailed.
I was disappointed with myself. I vowed decades ago that I would never be one of those high maintenance clergy spouses that makes her husband turn a job down because there's no room for the pastel Smeg fridge. For a start, I've never owned a pastel Smeg fridge. But the dresser has always been at the heart of our kitchen, as the kitchen has been the heart of the house. We bought it in 1987, back in curacy days, in Teesside. It was varnished pine, and had gradually turned yellow, the way varnished pine will. I gave it a face lift in the late 90s, and painted it cream. Massive job, that. Sanding it, undercoat, several layers of paint, screaming at the children not to touch the wet paint, whole house stinking of paint fumes. But it was worth it. The dresser became a central part of my decor style. I was aiming at shabby chic, and was at least halfway there, after my sons gradually distressed the surface over the years.
Look! You can even see a dear little face, scratched into the paint by my younger son, who is an artist. Quite a bit of family history is ingrained in my dresser, really. So you will appreciate that moving to a house where there was no room for this iconic piece was quite a challenge. The gents from the church commissioners, whose job it is to placate hysterical bishop's wives and maintain 'see houses' (as we squeamishly call palaces these days) were all sympathy. They could take the dresser out, they said. (Admittedly in the manner of men saying they could donate a kidney if they had to.) I sensed that they would prefer me to 'explore alternatives' (the Anglican way of saying 'No'.) The bishop suggested that we could put the dresser in the hallway. I considered this option for as long as it deserved, and temperately replied 'IT'S A KITCHEN DRESSER! IT WOULD LOOK STUPID IN THE HALLWAY!'
So I did what I always do under trails of any kind: I rang my mum to moan. I love my mum. I'm very glad I can still ring up and moan to her. She's undertaken to stay alive for as long as possible, given that this has already been a taxing year, what with all the changes, and my younger son's imminent wedding (a thought: I could scratch a dear little face on his wedding cake!) Mum can quite see that we don't want a funeral as well. I explained about the dresser. She said, 'You could paint it.' And I immediately thought: Oh! I could paint it dark green. And she said, 'You could paint it dark green. Then you could decorate it, like that Austrian furniture.'
And that's what I've done. I used Chalk Paint, which is brilliant. No sanding or undercoat. Dries in half an hour. Honestly, you could paint it on with a hammer, it's so forgiving. I tapped into the reserves of my long ago A-Level art, and decorated the heck out of the thing.
As you can see, I've preempted my son, and painted dear little animals on it in advance.
So you may picture me adjusting to my new life here in Sheffield, absentmindedly dipping my paintbrush into my G & T, as I continue to ponder the possibilities inherent in working with what's to hand, rather than railing against it.
*N.B, the timing, those of you wishing to trace an autobiographical strand in Realms of Glory. I blogged that last novel year, way before becoming a bishop's wife was on the cards. So stop your nonsense.
We all have our different coping strategies when our domestic world is turned briefly upside down. Gin is an obvious one, but it has its limitations. There is also paint. Paint is safer than gin in most contexts. (The obvious exception being a gin sling.) Paint is my go to coping mechanism. Back in April of this year*, when we first came to look round the new house, I had a brief crisis in the kitchen. It had a built-in dresser. 'But where will I put MY dresser?' I wailed.
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| My kitchen dresser |
I was disappointed with myself. I vowed decades ago that I would never be one of those high maintenance clergy spouses that makes her husband turn a job down because there's no room for the pastel Smeg fridge. For a start, I've never owned a pastel Smeg fridge. But the dresser has always been at the heart of our kitchen, as the kitchen has been the heart of the house. We bought it in 1987, back in curacy days, in Teesside. It was varnished pine, and had gradually turned yellow, the way varnished pine will. I gave it a face lift in the late 90s, and painted it cream. Massive job, that. Sanding it, undercoat, several layers of paint, screaming at the children not to touch the wet paint, whole house stinking of paint fumes. But it was worth it. The dresser became a central part of my decor style. I was aiming at shabby chic, and was at least halfway there, after my sons gradually distressed the surface over the years.
Look! You can even see a dear little face, scratched into the paint by my younger son, who is an artist. Quite a bit of family history is ingrained in my dresser, really. So you will appreciate that moving to a house where there was no room for this iconic piece was quite a challenge. The gents from the church commissioners, whose job it is to placate hysterical bishop's wives and maintain 'see houses' (as we squeamishly call palaces these days) were all sympathy. They could take the dresser out, they said. (Admittedly in the manner of men saying they could donate a kidney if they had to.) I sensed that they would prefer me to 'explore alternatives' (the Anglican way of saying 'No'.) The bishop suggested that we could put the dresser in the hallway. I considered this option for as long as it deserved, and temperately replied 'IT'S A KITCHEN DRESSER! IT WOULD LOOK STUPID IN THE HALLWAY!'
So I did what I always do under trails of any kind: I rang my mum to moan. I love my mum. I'm very glad I can still ring up and moan to her. She's undertaken to stay alive for as long as possible, given that this has already been a taxing year, what with all the changes, and my younger son's imminent wedding (a thought: I could scratch a dear little face on his wedding cake!) Mum can quite see that we don't want a funeral as well. I explained about the dresser. She said, 'You could paint it.' And I immediately thought: Oh! I could paint it dark green. And she said, 'You could paint it dark green. Then you could decorate it, like that Austrian furniture.'
And that's what I've done. I used Chalk Paint, which is brilliant. No sanding or undercoat. Dries in half an hour. Honestly, you could paint it on with a hammer, it's so forgiving. I tapped into the reserves of my long ago A-Level art, and decorated the heck out of the thing.
As you can see, I've preempted my son, and painted dear little animals on it in advance.
So you may picture me adjusting to my new life here in Sheffield, absentmindedly dipping my paintbrush into my G & T, as I continue to ponder the possibilities inherent in working with what's to hand, rather than railing against it.
*N.B, the timing, those of you wishing to trace an autobiographical strand in Realms of Glory. I blogged that last novel year, way before becoming a bishop's wife was on the cards. So stop your nonsense.
...nonsense.
ReplyDeleteThat is extraordinarily intelligent of you. Also, really very clever and I'm sure the visitors to the palace won't find dear little painted animals in the hall in the least disconcerting. BUT you have just given my time sense heart failure because I still expect you to blog on a Sunday!
ReplyDelete