Only bespoke will enter my home

I love shopping, but as a baby step in my six-year journey to tiny house living, I was on the verge of stopping! I had made a decision (only today!) to stop buying things. Not all things, mind you, just things I didn't need. 

Need can be rubbery. Yes, I definitely needed the chunky heel pumps I bought the other day, second-hand but barely worn, in a shade a paint colourist might call cloudy eucalypt, but I probably don't need yet another pair of black trousers, even if I find a pair on sale, as I frequently do. Unless it's to go up a size! (Or maybe down? That would be nice).

But that changed tonight when I watched Bespoke. (I love that word. One must say it just so, like  Kevin McCloud, on Grand Designs). But it was that other knit-wearing influencer, Marcus Westbury, Newy's original and accidental hipster, who sealed the deal. Tonight, he took us on the first part of his tour around the country to celebrate the resurgence of makers and artisans who put their love into what they produce. Our local folk featured well - how spoilt we are in the Hunter Street Mall - but Tassie's blacksmiths stole the show. Fire and fury is sexy as hell. (Blacksmiths and butchers - salt of the earth - men you'd marry.)

In any case, I declare, rather than stopping shopping altogether, I will just try to shop closer to home, and closer to homemade. I'm hardly Robinson Crusoe here - but if I say it out loud, I'm more likely to do it. So, no more shopping for things I don't *need*, and only bespoke will enter my home.

Is this an excuse to keep shopping? Probably.

Is this a bad thing? Probably not. 

A tiny house is not made overnight (nor a tiny house person), particularly one that is bespoke.

Living large in a tiny house

Forgive me for I have sinned. It's been three years and three months since I last blogged.
And when a friend - yes, you, Nathalie Craig - suggested I reboot my inner blogger in order to share my tiny house journey, I thought, why not?
There are plenty of reasons why not: I have two jobs, a uni course, and a tiny house to build. Plus, I like watching television and trolling Facebook for tiny house, cute cat, and pimple popping posts. And I've joined the School of Hard Knockers, the fabulous choir that is set to go on a world tour of the Greater Hunter next year! (Watch this space)
But reasons why I should include 1) it is fun 2) it is easier than keeping a diary 3) one day I might monetise and be independently wealthy and 4) I don't want to start my uni assignment.
What is the point of a tiny house, my friend Kirsten Mulley asks?
In a nutshell, it is to live simply but comfortably, and spend my time and money on other things.
I want to live large in my tiny house.
So, welcome to the beginning of the first leg of the tiny house journey.
It's a six-year project (don't panic, you don't have to stick around that long), that will include a total downsize and rethink of the way I live, work and play. I think/hope? my partner Gregory Howley is with me all the way. He certainly is in step one.
Which is 1) build prototype tiny house in existing gazebo in backyard to be mancave/office/music studio/guest quarters (see Kirsten, you can come stay!)/granny flat and maybe eventual home.
We have engaged the engaging Paul Webber to put our ideas on paper and help us through council.
So, after 10 years of dreaming, and 12 months of planning, we have synergy and are moving forward. (I love Utopia, I'm channelling my inner-Rhonda in my new role!).
Anyhoo, the kettle is boiled, and the washing is done.
But I'll be back.

A woman in sensible shoes

I'm contemplating the end of the high heel. Actually, contemplating is not the right word, I'm working towards accepting the end of the high heel.
I know (hope?) my shattered ankle will mend, and that I will eventually put weight on it and walk again, and maybe even walk without a limp, but forcing that delicately reconstructed and metal-pinned joint into an unnatural position for the sake of vanity? I think that's asking too much.
My surgeon hasn't said as much, but he probably thinks any right-minded person would realise it! I'll ask him on Tuesday, just to be certain, and then I'll plan the rest of my life.
I love ridiculous heels. I always have, but they've got increasingly ridiculous in recent years. I'm not talking about great towering platform stilhettos that the youngsters teeter around in, I'm too old for that, but I still like a heel to be noticed. And to visibly change the way I walk/strut/sway.
I love a power heel. My kick-arse black pointy-toe patents have stood me in good stead in many an  office stoush. They send a clear single. Don't mess with me today, or this toe will be up your arse quicker than you can say, my, what lovely shoes you are wearing.
I've got a pair of red peeptoes (wooden heel) that have a similar effect on me, if not on other unsuspecting colleagues.
I loved my mustard slingbacks more than life itself, but they've now gone to god. And my faves of the moment are my black dance pumps with red flower on top. But there are so many lovely silly sandals (especially the red and pink pair I picked up for $10 in Melbourne once, and the browny-gold beaded ones that never really did fit - but comfort is rarely a consideration).
There are boots too. High kicking catwoman ones, and more sensible chunky heels that still pack a solid punch. Black ones, red ones, brown ones. Not high-high, but still high.
But, those days are over. Having lived in one ugg boot for five weeks (yes, I do plan to throw it out in spring) I've started to think about reinventing my footwear. But shoes say so much.
Although they look lovely on ballerinas and skinny girls in skinny jeans, ballet flats are not for me. I  could never take myself seriously in them. The loafer is just too ... Merewether. The sandal, well yes, there might be some summer options available from the likes of Sandler. The court shoe? Without a heel it looks matronly. There's the sensible shoe Rivers option, and although I have a friend who teams them very well with quirky skirts, it's not for me. I couldn't even really do the clacky mule (having a Kath and Kim moment) as I think it's not just the height of the heel, but the stability, that will matter.
The Mary-Jane is a good look, if it's patent enough and delicate enough, and probably a solid heel (wedge?) of 2cm would be okay. But I'd have to be careful of where the strap went (I may end up with no visible ankle at all!)
Mmm. I'll start browsing catalogues (seeing I can't go shopping in person - the pain, the pain!). Any suggestions anyone?

These are a few of my favourite things

Since mother's day I've been wrapped in a purple wool wrap, a gift from my kids, and it's become one of my favourite things. It's cardie, coat and dressing gown rolled into one. It's knee rug, head scarf, or just, in fact, scarf. Its purple is tending towards plum rather than an aubergine and it's soft enough to wrap a baby. It smelt like Tree of Life for a bit, but now it smells like eau de Rocky (my dog), so I really must wash it soon, but I just can't do without it for the few hours it would take to dry ( I sleep with it too, you see).
It is my favourite thing of the moment. But I do have others. My black shoes with red flowers on top - never fail to make me feel good and draw a comment from others. My red dress. A skirt and top I bought at markets in Sydney (black and white with red flowers), my red handbag (in fact any red handbag) my garnet drop earrings (the ones that were so symbolically lost and found), a painting on my wall I picked up in Greece, an open doorway in a flaking painted stone wall; blues and browns, age and beauty, promise and surprise. I love a silver ring that I bought at a party at my friend Jenny's house, and the pendant she gave me as a gift. I love the Country Road salad bowl, white with blue rim, a friend Cath gave me for a wedding present. I love my cracked Mexican champagne flutes I bought when I left home, along with my caramel stone dinner set (only a few pieces left now).
I love the painting over my bed, a nude, Rubanesque, that I gave to my husband for his 40th birthday but will never part with. I love a painting in the kitchen of terrace houses in early Sydney, rich autumn tones and reds.
I love my grandmother clock, made for us by my dad as a wedding gift, and the two little timepiece paintings that hang nearby, bought from Ann Von Bertouch's collectors choice.
I love a book called Small Houses, with a Japanese home I plan to build one day.
I love tea and chocolate and crispy roast potatoes with rosemary. I love the smell and taste of mandarins. I love the movie Throw Mamma From the Train, with Danny De Vito and Billy Christal.
I love Pina Coladas, but not getting caught in the rain.
And of course I love the Sound of Music and all of its raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.

When the black dog creeps

Today in the Newcastle Herald my colleague and friend Jeff Corbett writes about his first sight of the black dog. http://www.theherald.com.au/blogs/jeff-corbett/a-sobering-experience/2602429.aspx
Says Corbett: "While I am depressed occasionally, I don’t suffer from depression. I might have a mild despondency about my particular circumstances for a day or so but it is always a temporary dip." He writes of two friends who suffer from depression, and one of them is me. "I asked one of those friends how she felt when she was in the grip of depression ... and she talked of non-stop tears, desperation, hopelessness and self-loathing, as she put it, all the fun stuff!" Now's he's had a glimpse of that dark place.
But, fortunately, I am not in that dark place, and have not been for some years. Now, I can spot the warning signs and act in time. For me, the first warning is the sense of being overwhelmed (with daily deadlines, that's a worry) of not being able to remember the detail I need to: what date is that story running, when is the orthodontist's appointment, what time is hockey, what will we have for dinner. These are things that go around in every busy mother's brain, but when the dog comes a creeping, there's acceleration and anxiety. There's just not enough space. Eventually, if unacted upon, the brain can't cope with all the data it has to process and shuts down.
Now, when I first feel that acceleration, that anxiety, I am kinder to myself. I put into practice all the skills in my arsenal, gleaned from books, friends, family, counsellors and from within, to head it off.
I'm kind to myself. I forgive myself my failings. I cut myself some slack. I delegate. I say no. I rest. I eat well. I definitely don't drink alcohol. I sleep. I meditate. I remember to breathe. I treat myself. And my newest and most important skill: I practice gratitude, and random acts of kindness. I smile at strangers. I praise the kindness of others. I phone a friend. I visit people I neglect. I demonstrably love my children, and hold them close. I write down what I am grateful for (mostly my sister Chrissy who taught me this skill, but often just the sunshine). And, as I said to Corbett yesterday, the love comes right back at you. The sunshine warms your face, and the friends and family and strangers warm your soul. The children snuggle close and all is good with the world.

No, I won't shop online

It's a big call, I know, but I'm holding out until I've run out of options before I will willingly shop online. It's part politics, part pragmatism, not a bit bloody-mindedness.
You see, I like shops, and I like shopping, even for groceries, and I haven't been able to have a bar of it for just over a month now, laid up as I am with my dodgy ankle.
Oh, I've had a quick wheel around the supermarket for emergency supplies with an impatient ex, but not the kind of shopping I like, which is slow and steady, fulfilling and fruitful.
It would make a great deal of sense to start online shopping, especially as I'm having to rely on others for my groceries, but try as I will (and I have twice) I just find the online shopping business soul destroying.
I want to smell the fruit, feel the meat, dig out the specials. (Just like I want to try on the shoes, flick through the books, feel the fabric.) All that bloody clicking from lists is tedious, overwhelming and sad. And what's to become of the checkout chicks? Is the self-serve checkout not demeaning enough?
So I'll have to keep prevailing on the kindness of family and friends until I am brave enough to get behind the wheel of the car (borrowed automatic, no manual for me for some time) or brave enough to instruct while my brand new L-plater drives. (She's only been out with her father so far, and mostly to industrial estates, but they're going okay.) And then I just need to work out how to push a trolley while in a wheelchair or on crutches (I have newfound respect for the disabled), but I suppose if I have the learner driver with me she or her brother can push the trolley, a task they fought over as littlies. So bugger you Coles and Woolies online. We'll eat from the pantry until the cupboard's bare.
In the meantime, can anyone who visits me just please bring milk?

How I met my ex's new squeeze

I met the ex's new partner last night, and I quite liked her.
You can see how far I have come in recent days.1) I'm able to say ex, not husband any more, even though technically he is my husband and not my ex. 2) I was able to agree to meet the new woman in his life, suggest it actually, and behave gracefully. (Well I was in a wheelchair in a small art gallery, so I'm not sure gracefully is accurate, but I didn't disgrace myself.)
There was considerable anticipation; what outfit to wear, what shoes to wear (shoe, singular, and I don't have any stylish flats, let me tell you) whether to try the crutches or stick with the wheelchair ( I certainly made an entrance), whether to have one endone or three.
But I had my support crew (thanks Jenny and Chrissy) and enjoyed the schmoozing.
The evening started badly when my drivers couldn't fold up the wheelchair to put in the car (one phone call to ex - see I can say ex - solved that) and when we collected a cyclist in front of the gallery. Or rather he collected us, riding on the footpath as he was, when he tried to avoid another pedestrian and ended up in my wheelchair. Forntunately, I was still hopping from the car. And no one was harmed. More distressing was the fact that he had a toddler on the back of the bike (not in an approved device) and he appeared pissed, but off they went into the night, and into the gallery we went. (Should I have done more about that little boy? Probably.)
And so I met the ex and his new squeeze and we talked about things we already knew about, our husbands (hers is a right prick, and she did remind me how lucky I am, and that luck extends to you now, I thought later but not unkindly), our children, our dogs, my dodgy ankle.
But she was kind, and put me at ease. I tried to do the same.
And so, on we go with the next chapter of our lives.
I came home to my children and dog. And he went home to hers.