Getting Out of Games

It may have been in Stephen Fry's marvellous 'The Liar', or it may not, that a character muses on the benefit of having a simple term for those unlikely to engage in after-dinner games. The simple expedient of having the word was sufficent to de-mystify their reluctance, and force them to play. I am almost curious enough to go and look it up, but that would mean leaving my chair. and taking four and a half steps over to the bookcase. Hmm, it's a tough one. No, it's too annoying, I'm going to have to find out. Talk among yourselves for a moment or two.

Right, it's by Mr Fry's eternally endearing creation Professor Trefusis, who happily shares the following thought:

the simple Papuan word redatt which, as some of you may know, means 'unlikely to take part in evening games'.... Most people who do not like to engage in after-dinner games and sports in some measure hold themselves aloof and consider, with distressing hauteur, that they are somehow above the sportive frivolities of other men. To be told that their measure has been taken by a race thousands of miles away, whose life style might be imagined to be far less sophisticated than their own, is too much for them. The unsporting persons are not after all fascinating or alluringly enigmatic -- they are redatt, unlikely to take part in evening games.

Now, I wonder what my point was? Oh yes, participation in games. I am far more likely to show enthusiasm for games that allow me to remain supine. Much as the Australian sports commentators were fond of saying about the British olympians last time around, I do better when seated. So essentially, Scrabble: yes, Sardines: no.

Yesterday I was fortunate enough to be invited to the beautiful garden of some friends, for an afternoon of croquet and cream tea. I was rather hoping to leapfrog, in a purely metaphorical sense as per the previous paragraph, straight to the cream tea. When we arrived a few minutes late, a game was already in full swing-clunk, and it looked likely I would be able to install myself on a sun lounger and engage in nothing more energetic than a little light applause.

I had expended due effort in meeting the dress code, which was "hats and gloves". Our little group pulled out all available stops and duly adorned ourselves with hats, gloves, and even petticoats under summer dresses. It was really a waste there wasn't a wedding photograph to crash on the way.

There were pages of instructions about how best to play the game, which I had a scant look through before deciding to admire the climbing rose instead. Regrettably there came a point where to refuse to get up and grasp a mallet would have attacted far more attention than almost any maladroit swing on my part, so we began an amble round the lawn. The expert host kept having to call us back from the tea table, where we'd tried to slip in a cream scone before our next turn. I think it became clear we perhaps weren't competition standard. Which is not to say we're not competitive - far from it. It's more what I've best heard described as a "can't win? won't play" attitude, poorly disguised as casual unconcern.

The game was mercifully brief, and I cast around for a useful future diversionary tactic. I remember these now from school, even then used for the purpose of Getting Out of Games. For a short while I managed to look very busy re-filling the teapot, and after that, longing for another nap, I had a brainwave.

I remembered my host had a stack of quilt pieces she had been tasked with sewing together. What a happy time was had by all, as the others continued their machiavellian tactics on the croquet lawn, and I progressed from tea to champagne, occasionally passing a needle through a quilting square. Well played.

Scope for imagination

As all people brought up in the world of Avonlea, wishing they lived at Green Gables will know, the power of the imagination is a great thing - but optimistic over-use can occasionally lead to disasters such as dying your hair green instead of black.

Stuck on the circle line in London yesterday, wondering whether the sound in my ears was that of my internal organs reaching bubbling point, I tried to harness every particle of my imagination to persuade myself that I was lovely and cool. I hoped to convince my sweltering self that instead of being deep underground in airless temperatures somewhere above 32 degrees, I was in fact sitting outside in wintry Finland, congratulating myself on being wrapped up so well that only my nose was cold. I reckoned my chances of successful delusion were limited, and thought I'd start with the tip of my nose and work up from there.

I closed my eyes and concentrated as hard as when I was about 6 and believed clicking my heels together three times might actually get me home. Unfortunately, what might possibly be appealing in a 6 year old, is probably somewhat alarming on an adult woman with her eyes screwed shut and so much tense expectation in her posture that the words "pelvic floor exercises" were probably creeping into fellow travellers' minds.

I managed to maintain the illusion for about 3 seconds each time, trying to drag myself into conviction through details. It was no good, I needed something more extreme, some sensation from my memory that would be more intense than the heat.

Suddenly I had it: imagine you are walking down a slippery wooden path, in borrowed shoes, the cold air on the backs of your knees, snow falling on your bare shoulders. You grasp hold of metal handles at the top of a ladder, and take the first step down into a frozen lake. People have cut a hole in the ice, but the lake still wants to be frozen and the edges inch forwards overnight. The shock of the ice against your first toe makes you breathe in so hard your lungs shut. Then your friend takes a picture.

And before I knew it, it was my stop and I could emerge into the open air triumphant.

From wreck to relaxing home

Week 5 in the Big Bombsite house. And actually, I'm nervous even typing this, but there's been real progress. For a start, thanks to the charming removal men and my fearless sister, all my wordly goods have been delivered here and re-distributed into either the house or the arachnid-breeding-house otherwise known as the garage (yes, I sent my sister in, and she was in flip flops. I've never seen such impressive self defence armed only with a garden hoe).

The really major change is that thanks to the ever-wonderful Anthony, I now have floors! I never realised quite how much of a difference these make. Not just because I'm no longer skipping joist to joist over the dodgy floorboards, but because the level of general dust and grime has decreased approximately a millionfold now that there are beautiful sealed floors everywhere. (Oh OK, not the kitchen yet, but give me time.) To the left is the hall floor of white ash laminate, which also goes on through the living room.

So the study, which already had carpet and painted walls and new curtains when I last wrote (it was very advanced for its age), now has lots and lots of nice white Ikea bookshelves. It also has a lovely radiator, but I'm less excited about this because a) it doesn't hold books, and b) I wasn't involved in putting it together. Sure it'll be much appreciated when it's not 28 degrees outside though...

Many thanks to the lovely Mark for doing all the tricky bits, like fixing hinges and attaching the unit to the wall for stability. And carrying all the heavy boxes. The more eagle-eyed reader will have spotted the "whited out" panes in the bookcase doors, in which I realised I could better conceal all my heaps of random paper by taping pictures in front of them.

The next room that I am thinking of as "finished" is my room. Or now, Molly's room, since she moved in a week ago and has almost finished sniffing everything she considers to be suspicious. In my next post I'll tell you about the World's Most Expensive Catflap, which involves a whole new double-glazed panel for the front door. If only she could just learn to use a key.

Here's the before and afters of my bedroom (clutter carefully cropped out of shot, hopefully):

Remind me why I bought this house again - looking at this now makes me want to run away.

After: phew, it was all alright in the end. The amazing power of white (paint, lampshade, bedlinen...)

And there's somehow also been good progress with the living room. OK, so if you look up you'll be greeted with a sort of equator across the ceiling, where I couldn't face painting the other half, but I'll get to it. Honest.

The main feature (and I use that word remarkably loosely) of the living room was a lumpy grey tiled fireplace. Here's the going, going, gone shots of that:

Mmm, bet you all want one now. Sorry, it went on the skip.

An excellent start, but not quite there...

That's more like it.

And now, it all looks like this. The TV is currently performing a purely decorative function (hmmm) since I can't find the aerial cable or the remote controller for the dvd player. They're probably hiding together in a saucepan, secure in the knowledge I'm not unpacking any kitchen boxes until, oo, I don't know, I actually have a kitchen.

No update would be complete without the much-anticipated evidence of the Finland canvas. This is a print from a photograph taken by Jere, of their beautiful view in Tampere. It makes me feel calm (and envious) every time I look at it.