Tensions

Today is an anniversary of sorts. On this Saturday eight years ago, I first set eyes on my house on the strand. I was looking to buy a property in Blackpool within reasonable striking distance of the football ground. 

Although driving up from Hertfordshire (and back - a 450 mile round trip) on Saturdays and Tuesdays to watch the mighty Seasiders play was a feature of life while I was working (though admittedly we occasionally stayed over in a hotel or B&B on Saturday nights), when I took early retirement and a redundancy package at the start of 2013 it opened up the possibility of a more flexible and leisurely lifestyle. 

Acquiring a base in the jewel of the north turned into my first retirement project (and why I didn't write about this in last week's blog about retirement, I don't know!), so I started looking at properties in South Shore, if not on Bloomfield Road itself then nearby, on match days prior to kick-off.

I saw a few horrors before happening upon the house I live in now. I liked its general appearance, its orientation (east-west) and the ambience of the neighbourhood. It is just off Bloomfield Road, is within easy walking distance of both the football ground and the promenade and was within budget, so as spring rolled into summer in 2013 I put in an offer that was accepted.

You may be wondering what all of this has to do with tension and the answer is not what you may think. The house purchase proved uncomplicated, proceeded remarkably smoothly; and I'm going to side-step the issues in my personal life at that time which meant I ended up living here alone, separated and then divorced (though Rosie the cat didn't pee on my ex-wife's shoes for nor reason).

The house needed quite a bit doing to it, not just cosmetic changes, and over the years I've ripped out fitted wardrobes (don't like them) from the master bedroom, removed the carpets (don't like them) from every room, sanded down floorboards or replaced rotten floors with new wooden ones, and banished curtains (don't like them) in favour of blinds. Three bedrooms, two living rooms, a kitchen and a conservatory have been thus overhauled, repapered, painted, generally decked out to my satisfaction. I've done all the works myself except for replacing the wooden floors in the downstairs rooms. 

The only part of the house on the strand that is still as I first saw it in April 2013 is the hallway (upper and lower levels and the stairwell). Its turn has finally come, but here's the issue: I like the wallpaper in the hall. It's an embossed abstract design (roses) and I would rather repaint it than replace it - especially with twenty foot drops to hang. However there are a few places where it's perished due to underlying (and since remedied) damp issues. I need a replacement roll to make good before I repaint but the pattern is no longer sold. In the year or so before lockdown I looked everywhere - in wallpaper shops, online stores, in those warehouses that specialise in end-of-line remainders - nothing, and so the hall has stayed as it is for longer than I intended.

Then last month I had a brainwave. The wallpaper used in the hall is the same as that used by the previous owners to cover the ceiling in the second bedroom! I've never recycled wallpaper before but that's what I'm planning to do, to lift the paper carefully from the bedroom ceiling and redeploy it to make good areas of the hall that need repapering (and then I can put something different entirely on the bedroom ceiling). It's my spring 2021 project. It looks like the easy option. What can possibly go wrong?

And so this where tension comes in, finally. It takes two forms. The first is the mental one, the sense of anticipation or expectation involved in the planning; the nagging thought that it might all go horribly awry leaving me with a whole hall to repaper and a bedroom ceiling to boot... but I'm up for the challenge. The second is to do with the physical process itself. It could have all the drama of a hospital soap: the preparation of the donor ceiling and recipient walls, the act of getting just the right tension on the wallpaper I'm removing (note, not stripping but peeling), to ensure that it comes away cleanly, evenly, untorn and in reusable strips; the rush to transfer it to its new site; the surgical precision required to apply it seamlessly to repair and replace those damaged sections of hallway. Are you getting the feel of the operation? I could almost sell tickets.

I'll let you know how it goes. There may be an issue with fitting exact matches of pattern to the recipient patches, but for once I shan't be worried if it's not a perfect alignment. It's only the hall and stairwell after all, and who sits on the stairs long enough to study the decor in detail? Except at parties. Ah yes. Remember them?

This latest poem from the imaginarium has nothing to do with Blackpool or houses or decorating projects but a little bit to do with parties and everything to do with political tensions in slightly obtuse form. Consequently, I've gone for what I intended to be a suitably gnomic mode of expression. Again I'm not sure if this is the final version...

Zen Underground

Red polls herald the revolution of another spring,

proclaim better days. Trees blossom white tinged

with hints of blood shed in the name of freedom.

In its fragile infancy a troubled people's triumph

might prove illusory, covert undermining tactics

underway to steal the ballot box from democracy.

With bribery, fear, ratting, its dirty tools of choice,

manoeuvring in excremental ways to derail hopes

for a fairer world, this counter-revolution, hinged

on the tendency of all decent citizens to disbelieve

its leaders might betray them, readies its fatal play.

Be wary, history teaches ruthless men win the day.

Underestimate the corrupting power of power and

all that has been gained above ground shrivels up

to might-have-been dreams. Be alert to the danger,

be ready to resist the rise of so egregious a faction.

Hope doesn't come from words so much as action.

Step up and signal this message swiftly down line.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)