Battling the nausea that arrived with some stray virus this morning, I spent the afternoon topping up on fluids and having a long sleep. I surfaced in the late afternoon, and no sooner had I sat down in my new study - to consider my woozy state and the room’s chaos - than the landlord arrived to do some urgent repairs. While he mended broken things, I relieved another box of its contents: magazines, books, model boats, and Dorothy the Dinosaur (who belongs to K-girl, but lives with me).
We’ve been here just over a week, and both my husband and I have reflected on the reasons why this particular house resonates so strongly with us. Mostly, we've remembered that our grandparents lived in similar houses, i.e. weatherboard, wooden floors, bull-nosed verandas shrouded in lattice, a wide, lead-lighted passageway running the length of the building. This familiarity brings with it a feeling of comfort, of being at home.
Back in the early 1990s, I lived in a house very similar to this in the Perth Hills. My writing room had French doors that opened onto a verandah and beyond that a beautiful garden. I loved that house, even though I didn’t own it. My writing life was very rich during the time I lived there.
This new study, in yet another rental, has French doors opening onto a small, weather-beaten verandah and a garden bed featuring a flowering jacaranda tree that has carpeted the pathway purple. Despite my spinning head, the unpacked boxes, the shambles, I’m optimistic. I've completed two more degrees since I lived in the Hills, it's time to lose the word study. My new writing room in this new house is full of promise.