Simply Horrid

I love a good catalogue (please don't send me any...phew!).

No seriously, I do enjoy a quick flick through the catalogues that happen upon my doorstep; not your cheapo sales flyers, but the the magazine quality, glossy versions. Restoration Hardware is an example of the type of catalogue I am happy to ponder - not that I have ever bought anything from there, but they do send me a catalogue for my own perusal and entertainment all the same...how kind of them.

Yesterday, I received from the post office, no bills, no personal mail, no parcels - just advertising, bound together with a thick green rubber band, as if the post office were attempting to assist me with the inevitable bin file, by neatly bundling the documents most likely bound straight for the landfill. Having said that, I did release the band that secured the 5 or so flyers, just to make sure there wasn't anything of any great importance.

Among the clutch of papers was a flyer for a roof restoration company, a take-out menu to a local restaurant, McDonald's coupons, and an envelope containing a collection of "specials" from a variety of retailers. The only thing worth affording a second glance was The Home Depot's Dream Book.

The Dream Book is quite obviously aimed at women, with its little decorator knick knacks, furniture and soft furnishings adorning its shimmering pages. Personally I would rather have all my teeth extracted than venture into The Home Depot and hardware stores like it, especially if I have the kids in tow.

Anyway, I was giving the catalogue a glance while eating my dinner last night; mentally jotting down items on my You Wish! List, when I turned the page (pg 23 if you were wondering) to an image that was really quiet disturbing. This first image at the top of this posting shows an entire room wall papered in this ghastly print.

This wall paper, if you hope to avoid it, is called Raven Glass, by Shand Kydd. Its volume really is enough to cause even the staunchest shabby chic enthusiast to tuck oneself up into the fetal position and rock back and forth while clutching a beige paint sample to their bosom, with an insane twitching about their left eye.

I don't know if you can see this picture well enough, but even the door is wall papered. The caption reads "Add baseboard at the bottom and turn a door into a secret passage." I think the more realistic caption should read, "For your own amusement, add a baseboard at the bottom of the door and watch your one night stand awaken to the horror of this overbearing room and grow increasingly panicked at the thought that he is trapped forever."

Still reeling from page 23, I decide to turn the page, only to find page 24, sporting the unthinkable - a wallpapered ceiling. Or as I like to call it - the bane of future renovator's lives.

The caption for this stroke of decorator genius reads: "Papering the ceiling instead of the walls makes a space more interesting and intimate", which is another way of saying - a point of contention and cramped. The caption should perhaps read "how to devalue your property in one easy step".

Now this next image is a corker, if you ask me. It was not from the Home Depot catalogue, but rather one of those amusing catalogues that mysteriously wind up on your doorstep, every so often.

I have never succeeded in my attempt to spot our area's distributor of said catalogues, which are mostly filled with items no one in their right mind would want or desperately need; and even if one does happen upon something worthy of mild consideration, the rest of the items tend to taint its overall impression, and one winds up dismissing the said item with a what was I thinking, "Naaaaaaah!"

Nevertheless, I included the "tree face", as I felt it would probably suit the garden of any home considering the previous two decorating tips.

Much to my relief, I have seen this item featured in the drop and run catalogues over the past year or so, and have never encountered a tree sporting "the face".

But, in reference to this item's description, I would like to know exactly what part of a large plastic face on a tree is "realistic". I do however, buy the line about your tree becoming "the talk of the neighbourhood", as people will likely come from miles around to stand in amazement and ask..."Why?" , while small children plead for their mothers to find an alternative route, rather than be made to walk past "the house with the scary tree ".

Leave a light on for me

The other night at the Nordic Walking group, a woman said to me, "Lovely evening for a walk. Don't you think?"

It had snowed the week prior. The snow was still evident on the ground, although it had been well trodden - packed and icy. The air, though crisp, swirled with the scent of burning wood, which conjured up all sorts of warming imagery; like couples cuddling beside open fires, sipping mulled wine, or families playing board games, a raging fire in the background and hot chocolate carried in on a tray with a plate of cookies.

The night was clear enough to reveal a net of stars overhead, while night noises seemed to be more pronounced. Indeed, it seemed a perfect evening for a winter walk, so I agreed with much enthusiasm.

"I love looking into the houses", the woman announced, motioning to the house we were passing. The curtains were open wide; a soft yellow glow beckoning into a navy night.

At the time, I thought her comment a little off - voyeuristic and nosey...and why the hell don't these people close the drapes! So I kind of looked over at house to acknowledge the woman's statement and muttered "yeah", before attempting to change the subject. I noticed a chandelier. It was a well to-do neighbourhood, consisting of reasonably new houses that lined the streets like veneered teeth; perfect, proud, clean and well tended.

During the past week, I decided to go for an evening walk in my own neighbourhood. I was feeling a bit down, and just needed to get out of the house. There was no snow on the ground that night. In fact, it was quite pleasant to be out, and I only required a light jacket to ensure my comfort.

As I walked, I noticed many lights on in the houses I passed, and remembered what the woman had said.

The street over from my own is very nice and is considered affluent (why the disparity from one street to another around here, I will never know). The houses are all large with manicured gardens, that now loom in the evening shadows. Many of the houses appeared empty and seldom frequented (if you know what I mean), just as they do in the daytime; the windows closest the street were all dark, like soulless eyes.

One house I passed, had every light on throughout its lower level. I noticed a winding wooden staircase reaching into the obscurity of an unlit second floor. The walls of a freakishly large sitting room were painted eucalyptus green - not my favourite colour - too much in such a large space, and it looked a bit drab. A middle-aged man was working on his computer. His back was turned to the road, as was his computer monitor. He seemed to be the only one home.

A little further down the road I came to a gorgeous little house; one in which I had actually the fortune of entering. The owner once told me it had been a heritage home that was relocated into town a number of years ago. The owner and his wife had bought it, and renovated it themselves.
The house is painted in a lovely periwinkle blue with white trim. Shining polished wooden floors greet visitors, along with stain-glass windows and antique lace curtains. The space inside is intimate, warm and tastefully decorated. From the road it appears a tiny home, especailly when compared with its neighbouring gaints, but it is a deceiver. For once inside, you'll find that it actually contains three levels. A black steel staircase spirals from the corner of the dining room, opening up to a darling attic that harbours two of the sweetest little girls rooms one is ever likely to see. I just LOVE that house.

On the evening I went walking, the lace curtains were drawn, but through the curtains the family could be seen sharing a meal under soft golden hues. I imagined the happy banter of the family, sharing news about their day. It seemed such an idyllic scene.

Further down the road, I spotted a woman standing in a sitting room. The TV was on, but her back was facing it. She folded a white blanket in half, then lent down out of view. I imagined a child that had fallen asleep on the sofa, the mother leaning down to wrap her child in the blanket before carrying her slumbering bundle up to bed.

The scene drew me back to my own children. I had been desperate for a break, but it was supper time, and I would be absent from our table that evening. If I did not return soon, I would also miss tucking them in and receiving the last bear hug for the day. Bedtime is probably my favourite time of day with them. a time when they tell me all their thoughts and secrets, in an attempt to avoid the inevitable separation, and falling asleep. I knew it was time for me to head home.