A gorgeous room set in Dovecote
We went to a party last Friday night - new friends, people we don't know that well, but are looking forward to getting to know. It was at their home, the other side of town, and we hadn't been to their house before.
We know they moved in recently, and have been working with decorators to get it finished in time for their house-warming party, and I know she has exquisite taste, so I was dying to see the house.
It was beautiful. Shades of cream and mushroom everywhere, beautiful rugs, coffee table books artfully and sparingly stacked on the elegant tables and shelves.
Stunning paintings, opulent curtains, it looked just like Dovecote. Dovecote is the most beautiful furnishing store in town. Their accessories are gorgeous, their furniture to die for, I go in there and I want everything in the store.
The problem is, you realise that after a while all these Dovecote houses look the same.
And as beautiful as they are, I'm realising they are not a home.
I thought this house was one of the most beautiful houses I've been to, and the decor was flawless. But did I want to kick my shoes off and curl up on a sofa? Did it look, for a second, as if there were three children living there (the children have a huge playroom/bonus room above the garage, plus games rooms and playspaces galore in the enormous basement). I walked around almost holding my breath. I was far too worried to sit in the living room with my glass of red wine - what if something happened? I'd never forgive myself. I rather suspect they'd never forgive me either.
In my old life, I had a house like that. A great, big, glorious new house. The children weren't allowed to play in the living room, and everything had to look perfect all the time. Contrast this to today, piles of cookbooks in the kitchen, toys that are supposed to have been put away but haven't been, sofas that are showing the wear and tear of five children living, truly living, in the house. The entire house...
I used to think I had to be perfect, because I didn't feel good enough, and my house was a reflection of that. Now I am happy, and I am good enough, and our house is finally the home I always wanted, and if it's not perfect, that's okay.
Neither am I.
There are three computers in my house. One in my office, one in the family room which the kids tend to use, and one in our bedroom.
I am not a fan of computers in the bedroom, but when my assistant is here, she is in the office and the easiest place for me to be is the bedroom. It's quiet, I can get stuff done, and no-one disturbs me.
In the new house we will have one office to house all the work stuff, and my assistant, and I will have a pantry/office. I know it sounds odd, (what the hell is a pantry/office anyway?) but I see it as a second, smaller kitchen, a place to arrange the flowers I cut from the garden, a workroom, a chair pulled up to one of the counters to serve as a desk. It will be off the kitchen, connected to the heart of the home, but a room that is truly my own.
Until that time, the only place for my computer is the bedroom, and the very fact of having a computer in the bedroom bothers me. I don't even like the television in the bedroom. I have always seen my bedroom as a haven - the quiet, peaceful place I can relax in at the end of the day, but it's hard to relax with all that technology around (Everywhere I look these days there appears to be a mobile device of some sort, charging).
And I've developed a worrying habit now that it's there. Waking up in the night, I have to just quickly check and see if there are any can't-miss-emails, and before I know it I'm popping onto Perez to see if there's any can't-miss-gossip, and then two hours have passed and I'm wide awake. Disaster.
Last night I vowed to go Cold Turkey. I had a gorgeous evening, lying in bed fully immersed in American Wife, not even missing the computer for a second.
By the way, I am loving this book, cannot recommend it highly enough, and despite being fiction, it gives the most extraordinary account of a fictitious first lady's life, based, not too loosely, on Laura Bush. It is so credible it is hard not to picture Mrs Bush on every page.
Digressing ever so slightly, I once sat opposite Laura Bush at a dinner. I've never worked so hard in my life. Getting conversation out of her was like squeezing blood from a stone, but mostly I felt bad for her. She seemed to me to be a woman who doesn't enjoy her position in the public eye, is not comfortable making small talk, would much rather be living a quiet, private life.
So, American Wife by Curtis Sittenfeld, and I, in bed, relaxing. At 2.30am I woke up. I won't do it, I told myself. I hadn't even brought the computer upstairs, had left it downstairs after I got back from the library, and I tried not to think about the computer, even as it called me ever so softly. At 3.32am I gave up, creeping downstairs to get the computer. Disaster.
I went back to sleep at 5, only to be woken up by the smalls at 6.15.
I am thinking more and more about our increasing dependence on computers, about how isolated we are becoming as a result, and let me tell you, a writer's life is isolated enough.
I used to write all my books from home, and used to think an average working day was around eight hours.
Until I started going to the library, which, at that time, didn't have wifi. It turned out that an average working day, minus all the time spent doing 'research' on the internet (largely consisting of net-a-porter), was in fact only around three hours. Bit of a difference, no?
My life is happier and more productive when I am not disappearing to mess around on the Internet. It is happier and more productive when I am engaged in that life: cooking, gardening, being with my family and friends, and no email is so important, no gossip so vital that I should be putting the computer before sleep.
On that note, I'm off to take a nap.
A big thank you yesterday to all at the Pearson Foundation Challenge and Jumpstart's Read for the Record campaign. I sat and signed. And signed. And signed. It was like a fairytale, the line that never ended. Every time you thought you were coming to an end, more people would appear. But a wonderful day, and so wonderful to meet so many great people. Thank you to Jennifer, to Carol, and most especially, to Frank the Book Shuffler.
I will be resting my arm today.
I have a new secret addiction I have to share with you...Swingtown. I haven't seen it since the beginning, but the last few weeks I've been watching and I love it. Maybe that's because I live in a town in which key parties seemed to be all the rage a few decades ago. I've heard people say they still go on today but I've certainly never been invited to one. Up until a couple of years ago, I didn't believe it for a second, was convinced it was just an urban myth.
Bring me names, I said to people. I refuse to believe until I have names, and not just a friend of a friend, but you. And then someone told me she'd been to a party, thrown by a girl I think of as The Knickerless Wonder. I call her this because rumor has it a few years ago she wore no underpants (knickers, as we say in England) to a party, got very drunk, and spent the evening flashing the various husbands at the party, causing, as you can imagine, enough gossip to last a good year.
My friend went to a party at The Knickerless Wonder's house. There were many drinks. Vodka shots, if I recall correctly. Then it was down to the basement for the 'party games'. My friend saw the beginnings of the swapping, got cold feet, and ran.
I don't blame her. But now I believe, and I'm happy to live vicariously via my television set, thank you very much.
And thank you for all the suggestions to help out my, clearly lacking, interior design skills. Particularly to Adiam, who made me laugh with this email: I don't think you should stop at the family room in decorating. I think the kids rooms could use a bit of gopher skin - dyed of course to match the rest of the room's decor. The kitchen could also benefit from a bit of deer skin above the stove. Some white-tailed deer can add a subtle change to the foyer. I can see the Architectural Digest spread.
I know I'm a sucker for punishment, but here's our bedroom.
REPEAT. THIS IS MY BEDROOM. NOT SARAH PALIN'S...
Any suggestions? A stuffed beaver head above the bed, perhaps? A squirrel lampshade? Braided chipmunk pillows?
In truth, if this were my own house, rather than a rental, I would have different paintings on the wall (those are mine, but too small for the space), and I would have a different bedside table - we had just moved in and Beloved had nothing - I found that pretty tray table in one of the antiques emporiums in Stamford, but there should be a more solid chest of drawers there.
We do decorate quite differently in England. My fashionista friend would be proud, for we don't do 'matchy matchy', instead mish-mashing all different styles together, bound with books, and art, and things we have collected over the years.
England is the only place you can mix chintz with chinoiserie, and leopard-print, and have it look wonderful.
Or hideous. Depending on your point of view...
I'm sorry, I know I'm supposed to be doing more important things like speculating on Britney's hairstyle, or even...hell...writing a novel, but I can't help it.
ap-palin's office:
Must have it all. Now.
Particularly the fabulous crab 'tchotchke'.
And I will say the fringe around the bottom of the bearskin rug is sheer genius. I have no bears in Westport, Connecticut, but there are plenty of deer in the backyard, and I wouldn't mind getting revenge on the gopher.
I asked Martha Stewart what to do about the gopher. I thought she'd say something like, 'mix a little baking soda with some craft glue, a few drops of home-made lemonade and you'll never have trouble again.' Here's what she suggested:
'Shoot it.' (SHE WAS JOKING!)
I'm now inspired, though. I could line the gopher's skin with a lovely fringe, perhaps in blue to match the family room. Admittedly, he's a little small for the back of the sofa, but I could drape him over the back of an armchair.
My family room. Wouldn’t it look great with a giant crab and a gopher skin?
Okay. I really will go and do something more important now.
We woke up this morning to find the garden had disappeared, and in its place, was a pond.
I rather like it. Particularly the vegetable garden which I'm now thinking of as my very own water feature. The vegetables were a disaster this year anyway, so I'm not the slightest bit worried about losing the watermelons. The last time the garden flooded I looked out the window and saw three ducks merrily floating around, which I also rather liked and wanted them to stay.
I have always wanted animals, particularly chickens and ducks, but sadly I don't think Figless Manor has enough land for either. I also think there are regulations forbidding you from keeping livestock down at the beach, but I swear I've heard a rooster down there, and up until about a year ago, there were a couple of llamas that lived behind a large breezeblock wall. I thought I was imagining things the first time I saw those llamas. I'd sometimes sneak over and have a chat with them.
Speaking of Figless Manor, the architect came yesterday, and produced five floor plans for the house, all of which are wonderful, and a huge relief to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that we've chosen the right architect for us. I also love that she's tremendously low-key.
'You're building a house?' people keep saying, 'you must be using blahblah blahblah,' reeling off one of a couple of names who seem to be the architects du jour if you are building a great big huge shingle house that describes itself as a Nantucket shingle, but, frankly, wouldn't make it past the dustbin on Nantucket.
We are not using blahblah blahblah. Or even blah. We are using an architect who lives in Lyme, who we found by knocking on the door of a house we loved and asking if they had an architect they might recommend. Actually, we did that a few times. Driving round on a Sunday we'd stop at houses that inspire us and ask for recommendations, and bless their hearts, every single person invited us in and gave us a tour. Which was lovely, and lucky that neither Beloved nor I have sticky fingers. (It's yet another of the things I love about living here. If you tried that in London I imagine people would tell you to 'f*** off' over the intercom system).
The house that inspires us most, however, is the house Beloved grew up in. Oddly, it was always one of my favorite houses in Westport, long before Beloved and I found each other. I love it because it's old, it's gracious, and wonderfully elegant, without being excessively grand or imposing. It is a house that looks special, a house I would love to come home to every day.
Built in 1873, it is Italianate Victorian, and was a wedding present from Beloved's grandparents to his parents. His mother lived in the house for over thirty years, and sold it ten years ago, but of course who knew, ten years ago, that Beloved would need a house with enough room for six children, a ready-made family of his own.
So we are now building an Italianate Victorian of our own, a style that is not frequently built these days, it seems, which is a shame. And we are not building it on steroids, which is the mistake so many builders seem to make these days, building houses in traditional colonial or shingle styles, but making them four times the size, which rather ruins the charm.
There are no elevations to show you yet, so I'm including a couple of pictures of houses we love, the houses that are inspiring us. Oh, and I'm also including a picture of Biscuit, who is growing like a weed. I feel a bit like I do when I buy things from ebay - I never know what to expect. They told me she'd be between 7-9lbs. I think that's highly unlikely, and she's much more likely to be 12 or more. Oh well. She's still the most delicious dog, and I'll just have to return all those cute little doggie carriers I've been buying compulsively (but at least I haven't bought the necklace...)
