The House of DisrepairThe House of Disrepair
I once lived in a house that I circled. I circled the garden, I circled the rooms, I circled the walls, the windows, the roof. I circled and circled — picking, plucking, doing, cleaning, seeing, fixing, loving, embracing, highlighting, adding, turning the house of broken declarations and falling-apart edges into a gift-wrapped present, a ready-made love nest, a nest of love. But slowly, as I carried everything on my back, as I went round and round, I did less and less and less. I couldn’t do all the things. And before I knew it, I’d stopped. The house of dilapidation stood still. All I could see was too little, too late, a back broken, a house in disrepair. I’ve tried to change my mindset — fixing one thing at a time instead of circling like a tornado, repairing everything in my path. But one-at-a-time doesn’t seem to get anywhere. And the disruption, the destruction, the falling apart outweighs the fixed, the repaired, the okay. The plasters have peeled. The mortar is falling out. The windows have misted — a slow film forming, almost a cube. The weeds have overtaken. The thorns have claimed the garden. The rat circles with happiness because nothing gets done and it can move freely. But the birds come. And the birds — they still give me joy.The House of Disrepair I once lived in a house that I circled. I circled the garden, I circled the rooms, I circled the walls, the windows, the roof. I circled and circled — picking, plucking, doing, cleaning, seeing, fixing, loving, embracing, highlighting, adding, turning the house of broken declarations and falling-apart edges into a gift-wrapped present, a ready-made love nest, a nest of love. But slowly, as I carried everything on my back, as I went round and round, I did less and less and less. I couldn’t do all the things. And before I knew it, I’d stopped. The house of dilapidation stood still. All I could see was too little, too late, a back broken, a house in disrepair. I’ve tried to change my mindset — fixing one thing at a time instead of circling like a tornado, repairing everything in my path. But one-at-a-time doesn’t seem to get anywhere. And the disruption, the destruction, the falling apart outweighs the fixed, the repaired, the okay. The plasters have peeled. The mortar is falling out. The windows have misted — a slow film forming, almost a cube. The weeds have overtaken. The thorns have claimed the garden. The rat circles with happiness because nothing gets done and it can move freely. But the birds come. And the birds —they still give me joy.The House of Disrepair I once lived in a house that I circled. I circled the garden, I circled the rooms, I circled the walls, the windows, the roof. I circled and circled — picking, plucking, doing, cleaning, seeing, fixing, loving, embracing, highlighting, adding, turning the house of broken declarations and falling-apart edges into a gift-wrapped present, a ready-made love nest, a nest of love. But slowly, as I carried everything on my back, as I went round and round, I did less and less and less. I couldn’t do all the things. And before I knew it, I’d stopped. The house of dilapidation stood still. All I could see was too little, too late, a back broken, a house in disrepair. I’ve tried to change my mindset — fixing one thing at a time instead of circling like a tornado, repairing everything in my path. But one-at-a-time doesn’t seem to get anywhere. And the disruption, the destruction, the falling apart outweighs the fixed, the repaired, the okay. The plasters have peeled. The mortar is falling out. The windows have misted — a slow film forming, almost a cube. The weeds have overtaken. The thorns have claimed the garden. The rat circles with happiness because nothing gets done and it can move freely. But the birds come. And the bird
Going Shopping in the Menopausal Way A menopausal purchase is planetary. The sun must shine. The temperature must be just right. You must be neither dipping nor surging — just perfectly balanced in the hormonal moment. Because unless you buy exactly when the stars align, it will get returned. You’ll love it on the day. But if the scales tip even slightly — by the next morning, it’s on the fence. If you’re lucky, you’ll return it. If not, it’ll sit in your wardrobe for 28 days until the return window closes. Then it’s either sold on Vinted for a quarter of the price or left to haunt you. There’s a lot resting on a menopausal buy. It’s not just a purchase — it’s a mood, a moment, a miracle. I never realised this until I saw how small my wardrobe was. Not because the shops weren’t there — but because I wasn’t there when I got there. You leave the house feeling great. You arrive at the shops and suddenly… not so great. So the purchase is less than mediocre. ...
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