Painting walls, not pictures

We've been in this house ten months now and it's time to start tarting the old girl up.  We have jokingly given the house a name - Turd Hall (or Tird Hall for posher spelling) as with two cats and a dog there is a lot of shit to pick up! Also as I get the shits with work quite a lot it's appropriate. But I digress…

So the tarting has commenced.

Firstly I had a painter - delectable Daniel, so cute I could almost eat him - do the outside woodwork around the windows.

Inspired by Daniel, who made the woodwork absolutely sing, I decided to paint the inside window trim in the living room and re-lacquer the windowsills because it looked so bloody disgusting compared to the outside woodwork. It took me a weekend and got me back into the swing of painting. I realise I am going about this upside down as the ceilings should come first, then the walls, then the trim, but oh well!!

Ready to go!

Done!

I also repainted the inside front door jamb after spending a couple of weeks mucking around with Plastic Wood and sandpaper restoring a section which had been thoroughly chewed by a friend's dog (hate to think of the splinters the poor dog must have got in her mouth!). It's not absolutely perfect - which is annoying to this perfectionist - but on first glance you wouldn't know there had ever been damage. It's not like it was a square piece either, there was a little recessed bit I had to match. I am considering becoming a sculptor using Plastic Wood as my medium!

Job done  - just have to pull the tape off.

After the delectable smell of oil enamel and turps had faded, I got withdrawal symptoms and wanted another nice task. By that stage I'd amassed around 50 colour swatches for the hall, living room and main bedroom. I bought a few sample tins and did some sections here and there on various walls. For a few days there were parts of the hall which looked positively patchwork as I tried them out!

Tird Hall is double brick and the interior walls are cement rendered, so it's a rough surface and interesting, if a bit labour-intensive, to paint over. The nice thing is that because of the surface you can be a bit slapdash with the roller and it won't show in which direction you've rolled.

The hall was originally yellow and while I wasn't enamoured of it, plenty of farting around with colours brought me back to yellow, but a lighter and more citron shade. The hall is pretty dark so needed a light and warm colour. I don't do cream. I did try with some cream sample paint but I rebelled against it. It's just not me.

I dithered about waiting until we'd had the ceiling painted, but then I thought: I'm a mucky pup when it comes to painting around cornices. I'll be really cross if I get paint from the walls on newly-painted cornices. I can easily touch up the wall for any paint spatters from the ceiling.

Before. The paint looked tired, it had worn away around the light switch, it had scuff marks that wouldn't shift and it was plainly dingy.

So I got the blue painter's tape out and got taping around door jambs, cupboards and skirting in the hall. It took me a roll and a half to do the job properly - it's a big t-shaped hall. I thought, "It's not a huge painting job - there are plenty of cupboards taking up space." Well. The first coat and a bit of the second to use up the paint in the roller tray took me eight straight hours. I didn't even stop for lunch as I was getting a bit tired by then and thought if I stopped, I'd STOP.  My arms were a bit sore at the end of the day and I was getting blisters from the roller handle.

After. You can see there's a slight citron tinge to the yellow.

Nonetheless, it looked great. And the good news is it only took me four hours to complete the second coat the next day. I was on a roller - er, roll - by then.  When I peeled away the tape there was very little paint where there shouldn't have been paint and the carpets didn't get a single drop on them. Phew.

My paint job was very neat - but my clothes weren't by the end of it!

Last weekend's project was the woodwork around the exterior of the front door - undercoat and two coats of glossy white enamel. The paint was original, i.e. 1960 vintage! And it looked it. It was peeling here and there where it hadn't yellowed. Now it's all shiny white again. Have to figure out how to repair the door sill though; it's falling apart.

What's next? Paint the screen door at the front its old original glossy black, as well as the matching grilles which go in front of the windows on either side. I've sanded the grilles ready for undercoat but have to sand and rustproof the front door.  I won't get the opportunity to pick up a brush this weekend though, dammit!!! We have too many social activities planned. Hmmph!!

Mum and Max Oldaker, the last of the Matinee Idols

In her late teens and early 20s, my mother was an avid theatre-goer. She loved musical comedy, ballet, operetta, theatre and to a lesser extent opera, as the three very full scrap books full of theatre programmes she kept confirm.

These scrapbooks are gems, with the programmes carefully stuck in and occasionally kept companion by newspaper reviews of the performance.

Mum used to go with a group of girlfriends, and it wasn't uncommon for them to go to opening night, last night and sometimes a night in between. The programmes bear testament to that, as there are multiples of some of them. Those young girls stayed good friends all their lives, through husbands, divorces, children, whatever, and met once a year. Mum was the last of them; one by one over the last twenty years they have seen the final curtain.

She used to talk about those old days with love and affection; you could, after the performance ended, take a tram home by yourself close to midnight and feel safe. You might meet for coffee at Repens before the performance. And then there were the stars themselves.

Sir Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh visited Sydney in 1948, and Mum, while she didn't see the play they were in (perhaps it was too expensive, or perhaps it booked out before she could get tickets), she did manage to get their autographs. And George Formby's.

When Mum spoke about her theatre-going days however, the name that cropped up the most was Max Oldaker.

Max who?

Max Oldaker. Tasmanian-born, he was the heart-throb of the theatre in the 1930s, 1940s and 1950s. He epitomised Tall, Dark and Handsome. He could act, he could sing, and was highly sought after for operetta roles and had a successful career in the UK as well as Australia. He understudied Rex Harrison in London in My Fair Lady, and the night Rex fell sick brought the house down; Rex made a damned quick recovery as Max did the role much better than he. With his fine tenor voice he considered doing serious opera, but it was in roles such as The Red Shadow in The Desert Song that his audience loved him.

What a looker! Max Oldaker as The Red Shadow in The Desert Song with co-star Joy Beattie. 1945

Max Oldaker as The Red Shadow in The Desert Song, 1945

Max Oldaker and Joy Beattie, stars of The Desert Song, 1945. I'd love to know the story behind this pic. Max is in theatrical makeup, Joy isn't, and they're in a bathroom.

Mum and her friends used to hang around the stage door for a sight of Max after the show was over. They made friends with Olga Deane, who ran the Sydney branch of the Max Oldaker Fan Club (sadly no remnants from that in Mum's amazing haul of theatre memorabilia). Olga was one of the Albert family of Albert Music fame, and very well-connected in the world of music and theatre.

She'd invite Mum and the girls to jam sessions at her house in (I think) Rose Bay. You'd go up a set of narrow stone stairs to a house perched up on the hill and see a sign: Here it is! Inside you'd sit wherever you could - on a chair if you were lucky, on a cushion on the floor if you weren't, and musicians would drop in, instruments in hand, after their shows and have an impromptu jam session. You wouldn't know who would turn up (Max never did) but you'd hear music and singing, get up and dance and have a great time. And catch the tram home at some ungodly hour early Sunday morning.

Jack Burgess at the piano with Max Oldaker. Max played the piano beautifully and composed music as well as having a fine tenor voice; a very talented man.

While Max was Red Shadow-ing the Actors' Benevolent Fund of Australia had organised a Popular Man contest to raise funds for charity, and entertainment organisations such as J. C. Williamson put up candidates. Max was working for them at the time and was their chosen man. Olga got Mum and the girls busy, selling buttons and badges with Max's face on them at the Theatre at nights. I don't think it was every night, but Mum certainly did her shift. I can't find any of the badges in the house but I'd be surprised if she didn't keep one.

Max won the contest - not to Mum's surprise - by raising the most money for charity.

By then Mum, aged 20, and the girls were getting on pretty well with Max. With their button-selling status and their 'inner circle' membership of the Max Oldaker Fan Club as friends of Olga, they were allowed into his dressing room, and would wait there while Max was on stage.

"In he'd come at the end of the act or the show," Mum used to say, "In full costume, with his face mask still on, and his cape wrapped around him. He'd fling it open with one arm, very theatrically.  He must have thought us a bunch of giggling girls but he was very nice and friendly to us."

Max gave Mum two signed photos of him being 'crowned' the winner - more about that later on.

Max was gay (a 'confirmed bachelor', as they used to say), but whether the girls knew that at the time I don't know - Mum knew he was gay when she spoke about him to me as an adult, but when she found that out I'm not quite sure. I suspect these young women from very ordinary families thought he was just behaving in the flamboyant and over the top way some actors do.

Max Oldaker clowning around, 1945

Mum followed his career for years, but after she married Dad she'd found a real life 'matinee idol' and the theatre programmes dwindled a bit. Dad wasn't into theatre like Mum was but the more he went with her the more he liked it.

When I was four, Max was playing in Half A Sixpence in Sydney and Mum took me to see a matinee performance. I don't remember a thing about it. I don't remember Mum taking me to the stage door to meet Max, and Max recognising her and greeting her by name after nearly twenty years and being absolutely delightful to both of us.

Several years ago I discovered that writer Charles Osborne had written a biography of Max: Max Oldaker, the Last of the Matinee Idols. I bought it for Mum for Christmas that year, read it after she did and something saddened me. I have just finished re-reading it, and I'm a little bit sad again and wonder if Mum was too. She never mentioned it. In a nutshell, here's what saddens me:

Max, you see, was embarrassed about the whole 'matinee idol' palaver. He had asked that the Max Oldaker Fan Club be wound up in 1944. I quote:

'To his dismay the Sydney Morning Herald in November published "a long and nauseating column which is disgusting - a degrading presentation of childishly adulatory material given to them by Olga Deane."'(Max's words)

In a letter (to his parents? It's not stated) Max writes, 'I've written to her and told her that there must be no compromise and that the whole of this nonsense must stop at once. I really think I should publish my views on the whole thing. I might have known that, for all Olga Deane's kindness, she is a person of no taste. I feel ashamed that I allowed her to start the club, but I suppose I couldn't have known what it would develop into. Now I hate it all. It's really not the sort of publicity I want.'

Ouch! I wonder what Mum thought when she read that, when Max had been so pleasant and welcoming to her and her friends - and Olga?

And as for what Max thought of being the winner of the Popular Man contest - here are Max's own words in a letter to Charles Osborne:

'At 12.30 am the trumpets blared and the ceremony began. Out of the gentleman's lavatory came little Max clad in a rather short regal robe which two attendants attempted to carry. Said robe was surmounted with an ermine collar which had provided a breeding ground and happy home for many generations of J.C. Williamson moths. My dear, the dais shook, the crown wouldn't fit and poor little Max felt most embarrassed. Kathleen Robinson, the actress-manageress of the Minerva Theatre, "kreowned" me, and we were both convulsed when the wretched thing would insist on coming to rest over my right eye as I made my epic speech. Many silly speeches were made about me…  The photographs of the ceremony were devastating, and I look positively repulsive in a crown.'

Max Oldaker, winner of the Popular Man contest, with his badly-fitting crown on 31 October 1945. Also in the photo, Jack Cazabon, Peter Finch and Jack Burgess

Looking rather embarrassed, Max Oldaker being 'kreowned' by Kathleen Robinson, 31 October 1945. Also in photo are Dick Bentley, Strella Wilson, John Cazabon, Wayne Froman, Jack Burgess, Hal Lashwood, Marshall Crosby, Leonard Bullen

The back of the photo above, signed for Mum who had volunteered her time to help Max win the Popular Man contest.

Max must have gritted his teeth when he personally autographed two photographs of the ceremony for Mum.

Max's attitude to his longtime fans mellowed, you'll be happy to know. By the time Mum took me to see Half A Sixpence, Charles Osborne writes about the show, 'In Sydney, he had his old star dressing room back again at the Theatre Royal, and was touched to find so many fans from the forties crowding around the stage door every night.'

If you want to find out more about Max, read the book by Charles Osborne. Max had a real wit and style about him, and was a prolific letter writer who could tell a good story against himself. His letters are a delight. You'll find several copies for sale on the interweb.

Barry Humphries wrote the Foreword in Charles Osborne's book, and I'll share a bit of it here. It's 1956 and Barry is working with Max in a show called Around the Loop:

'"How do you manage, Max," I once asked him, "to smile with such sincerity at the curtain call on a thin Wednesday matinee?"

"Dear Barry, it’s an old trick Noel (Coward) taught me, and it never fails.” He demonstrated, standing in the middle of the dressing room in his Turkish towelling gown, eyes sparkling, teeth bared in a dazzling smile. “Sillycunts,” beamed Max through clenched teeth, bowing to the imaginary stalls. “Sillycunts,” again, to the circle, the gods and the Royal Box. 

“It looks far more genuine than ‘cheese’, dear boy,” said Max, “and you’ve just got to hope that no one in the stalls can lip read.” I couldn’t help thinking of all my mother’s friends at those Melbourne matinees, their palms moist, hearts palpitating as Max Oldaker, the Last of the Matinee Idols, flashed them all his valedictory smile.’

I love it! I have real regrets that I don't remember meeting The Last of the Matinee Idols when I was four.

There's not much on the interweb about Max, sadly.

• A few bio pages.  This one here is quite good: http://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/oldaker-maxwell-charles-max-11296
• Several images - and I have added all that I have from Mum's stash here to share them with the world
• And only one free-to-listen recording of him singing that I can find, from 1929:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S19My765AnY  (Blogger won't embed it - it can't find it!!) If you're in Melbourne the State Library of Victoria has a CD of Max's songs.

Max died of heart failure in his home town of Devonport in 1972 at the age of 64. In nearby Launceston the Princess Theatre has a tribute wall for Max, with memorabilia and photographs.

G and I visited Launceston last year, and while I was in the Princess Theatre looking at the Max wall, I phoned Mum and described it all to her, and took photos to show on my return (they are reasonably rubbish photos, taken through glass, so I'm not posting them here). I'm so glad I did as Mum was gone herself two months later.

Who else remembers Max Oldaker and Olga Deane? Is there anyone out there who went to Olga's place late at night for a jam session, or whose parents did? At the risk of sounding like Olga and upsetting Max's ghost, I think the chap could do with some publicity. He was very talented and a true theatre star of the era. And dammit, he was handsome. That's reason enough.

Colour my world - or at least my mid-century house

This place is dingy. Seriously. A number of the walls are still proudly bearing their original 1960 paint job and while the paint is clinging happily on the internal walls with no sign of peeling, 54 years of wear and tear means there are places I just can't get clean, no matter how much sugar soap I apply. Paint has worn away near the light switches and the poor old place just looks a little underloved.

It's worse outside. The house is red brick, which is a blessing as the walls don't need painting. However all the north-facing windows have peeling paint to an embarrassing extent. Until now we haven't been able to do much about it as we have been saving - or at least G has - for the paint job.

I had a painter out today and if I may digress for a moment, my God he was cute! Dark eyes, dark hair; he had the look of a guy I had a crush on in my teens - a jockey, but he was taller. If I was younger I'd be tempted to try a Mrs Robinson. On looks alone he had the potential to pull me back from my current asexual status (digressing even more, I have been both sexual and asexual during different times in my life). He knew his stuff, too. We chatted about paints and techniques and paint additives, la la la…

So now I'm awaiting his quotes. Three quotes. One for outside, one for the ceilings and stairwell inside, and one for the internal walls in some of the rooms/hall. I'm capable of doing the internal walls myself but a) he'll do a nicer job and leave less mess on the carpets and everything else and b) because I feel obliged to answer every phone call and email I get, I doubt I'll have the time. There are lots of walls. Depending on the price I may have to pull the plug on the internet and put the phone on silent for a few days.

He left me with some colour charts to whet my appetite, and duly whetted it is. I have found colours that more or less match the original 1960 colours in the living room and our bedroom. The living room is the old colour Chartreuse (pale yellowy green) on three walls with an aqua feature wall. It rocks. I'm keeping the colour scheme as it suits the house and looks wonderful with the big stone fireplace. The bedroom is a pale ice green and I'm repainting in a very close colour as it's restful and brings the garden inside.

Our hall and stairway are currently yellow and I'm going for a lighter version as it's dark in the hallway. I'm hoping the colour I've chosen won't turn out looking cream as I detest cream walls. Too 'reproduction fuddy duddy' for me - makes me think of people with reproduction Chippendale antiques and uncomfortable chairs topped with antimacassars. And… too much like the cheap neutral colour you get in rental properties which looks 'dirty' very quickly. The British equivalent is a colour called 'Magnolia'.

The second bedroom was originally pale pink and repainted yellow in 1974. I'm sticking with a yellow as it's on the south side of the house and needs a bright, warm colour. The 50s colour palette was pretty well out there - yellow was a popular colour.

My office originally had pale-ish pink walls too but got a coat of white in the 70s. I like the white. This is a small, dark room and needs light, lovely walls. I'm choosing a variant of white. Not terribly 50s but I need the brightness.

The laundry has yellow walls the same as the hall, and they look odd with grey floor tiles and deep aqua (Amulet Blue as I recall, or Apmat Blue as my Dad used to call them, after a famous pacer of the day) wall tiles. I've chosen a white with a hint of grey/green which will look much fresher.

The bathroom and loo originally had pink walls (Mum LOVED pale pink. I don't) which Mum and I repainted in the late 80s/early 90s in a colour called Beige Shroud. Yup. Ugly name. The colour isn't fab either but we wanted to move from the pink which looked too dark in the room. You still get a hint of pink through two layers of Beige Shroud. That pink doesn't give up a fight easily. Beige Shroud is going though. I'm not heading back to pink but have found an interesting shade of pale green with a hint of mushroom grey called China White by Dulux which will complement the tiles better and look just cracking. It's not dissimilar to some of the colours from a 50s palette. I'll be painting the loo and bathroom myself.

So that's it. The kitchen is fine as I repainted it in the original blue and white 12 years ago and the paint looks fine. I'll redo the white oil enamel on the cupboard doors as they could do with a lift but the walls are fine.

Our plan is to get the outside stuff done this year. Depending on the quotes we may then get Daniel - Daniel….Daniel… those eyes! - to do the ceilings before Christmas too. It's exciting. And I think this house will appreciate the time and money spent on it.

And I suspect that next time I visit a psychic I'll get a message that Mum is relieved I have painted the outside woodwork!

Does success equal happiness?

I get a lot of emails. I guess we all do, but because of the contacts I have in the business world I get plenty of emails from business coaches etc talking about success. I got one five minutes ago from one such person who was offering me a special deal on a seminar which would unlock my potential and guide me onto the road to success.

I found myself saying out loud, "But I don't want success. I just want to be happy."

All through my corporate life I kicked and fought my way up the ladder. I started my own business in 2001 with the aim of being successful and earning more than I did in the corporate world. That hasn't happened. I've come near to breakdown twice owing to demanding clients and their deadlines; I can only work seven days straight for so many weeks in a row before I start feeling like self-harming.

So now I work part-time. My business is anything BUT a success. And you know what, I don't care. I make just enough to scrape by, my house is paid for and my husband is on a half-decent but not mind-blowing salary.

I don't want success; success means going back to full time work, to dealing with more people than I care to deal with.

Happiness is more important. Having the time to bake bread which is an 18 hour job including overnight rising. Having the time to tend the garden in the middle of the day. Being able to do the clothes washing midweek. Being with my animals. Working on the house. In summer, being able to nick down to the local river baths for an hour or two if I want to.

I think I'm achieving happiness. And that's more important, for me, than success.

The happiness sucker; or, why perfectionists are a pain in the arse.

What's your view on perfectionists? Not your average perfectionists who simply want everything they do to be the best, but the kind of perfectionists who tries to suck the happiness out of your own activities by putting you down because you're not bloody perfect?

Today I went Dragon Boat Racing for the first time at a local festival. It was an amateur event for corporate teams, school teams, sports club teams but no professional dragon boat teams were allowed. For half of our team it was the first time we'd tried it. Our only practice was paddling the boat to the starting line.

I got very wet and I had a ball. The first race we went in we came second and we were overjoyed. Last year our team had one second and 2 last places. We were fortunate in having a great 'sweep' at the back of the boat who coached us mercilessly.

In the second race we also came second at a much faster time; as a team we felt much more together. We were all gee'd up for the third heat, and it was neck and neck. A photo finish. We came second but we were exhilarated. We were paddling in unison, we were flying on the water and we were a tightly-knit team of people who'd suddenly grasped a sporting concept. We had qualified for the minor final on the day but many of our team had other commitments and couldn't stay, so we satisfied ourselves with a team best. You'd be hard pressed to meet a happier, more satisfied bunch of people after that third heat.

After the first race my 'friend' Whingy arrived and proceeded to pick on everything and everyone. Wasn't I going to take my bracelet off to paddle? (No.) Was I really paddling wearing THAT? (That being technical merino leggings, top and knickers, chosen because they dry quickly in the sun, and I told her so).

According to Whingy our team was hopeless in the second race. And the third. I in particular was rubbish apparently. G was watching from the shore with Whingy and she kept up a running commentary on how awful all the teams were, putting everyone down and being generally degrading. G couldn't believe how nasty she was being; maybe she was jealous because everyone was having fun and not taking it too seriously.

Whingy you see, is a serious dragon boater. She is with a dragon boating association, practices in a team twice a week, paddles in regattas with other teams who practice regularly and therefore judges our amateur efforts unfavourably against her own (naturally perfect) ones.  Like everything else Whingy turns her hand to she has to be perfect at it - and she has no time for people who aren't perfect at it too. She is unbearably smug.

She was doing her best to suck the happiness out of my day. So what if my team was a bunch of mugs having a go? The main thing is this bunch of mugs had a go and loved it. I suspect that perfection comes at a price and if she judges her performance to be less than perfect she doesn't enjoy it at all. For me it was about being out on the water on a stunningly sunny spring day. And that was perfect.

Cinderella does NOT want to go to the ball

Tonight I have to attend a Local Business Awards night on behalf of one of my clients. For most people, the opportunity to party is one they look forward to.

I'm dreading it.

It's a sociophobe's nightmare. 450 people in a room. I know the people I'll be sitting with at my table but oh, the hell of having to network beforehand with complete bloody strangers. Finding something intelligent to say in a room that will be echoing loudly with 449 people doing the same. I can't saunter in late either as there won't be any parking spaces left.

So I'll be stuck from 7 till at least 11 in this bloody function, wishing I was at home with a glass of wine, 2 cats, a dog and a husband. Because I'll be driving to the function I can't have more than 2 glasses of wine so even good old Dutch Courage is out.

To make matters worse I have to do the same thing next week on behalf of someone else. They offered me their ticket as an honour, knowing I was too broke to buy a ticket of my own and thinking I'd love the opportunity to attend. The real truth - I wanted to avoid the event at all costs and not being terribly financial was a great excuse. Now I'm Sucked In Cinderella, with two socially terrifying events in two weeks.

As a result of tonight I've been depressed all day. I can't concentrate on work this afternoon so I've been playing jigsaws online. I've eaten chocolate for the first time in weeks. I had a screaming fit earlier in the day after a phone call with another client, one who always puts my back up because he calls hands free from his car and shouts down the phone. Also he has a thick accent and I can't always understand him. To cap it all I'm waiting for a box of brochures to take to tonight's event on behalf of my client and the courier still hasn't arrived. I've been waiting since 7am and have phoned them. I have to deliver the box to the venue by 5, then come home and get changed and rush back again.

I can't make excuses and get out of going tonight as my client will be going herself and she's just undergone a medical procedure and will be dragging herself there, the walking wounded. Just because I'm a sociophobe doesn't let me out of it.

Hate hate hate my job and the ensuing social events. Dammit, universe, please let me win the lottery so I can retire!

Two houses and a haunting

Last weekend I drove past my old house. I was going to visit a friend nearby and thought I'd swing by. We have tenants in the place and their teenage son deals drugs and has friends who have sprayed graffiti liberally in the lane outside our house. They are moving out this week. The son has caused such trouble with my neighbours I have decided not to renew the lease.

But I digress.

This post is not about delinquent teenagers but about houses and districts - two of them: where I live now and have lived most of my life, and where G and I spent the first 7 years together.

So, I saw my old place. Jonquils I had planted years before were blooming in the courtyard garden at the front, so I nipped in and helped myself. There was nobody about to challenge me and as an owner I have every right to do it.

I was able to view my little house dispassionately. When we moved out I felt a little bit sad as it had been such a happy home for us. Six months later I've managed to disassociate myself and think of it as an investment property, with the occasional hope that the tenants appreciate the colour scheme and the garden beds (well, Sonny Jim certainly did with his marijuana plants) and are keeping the garden alive and tidy.

To be frank, I was able to look at the place with a sense of disbelief that I had ever lived there. It no longer felt like home. I have moved on.

I had a companion with me and was chatting to her on the drive. I kept my eyes on the road but it did feel weird driving back to my old house. I drove the route almost mechanically, not thinking twice about each twist and turn as we left the main road. I noticed subtle changes on the way; houses that had been knocked down for apartment buildings, houses which had been knocked down and were being rebuilt as a single dwelling. It was familiar but it wasn't my district any more.

Even the local shopping mall had changed hands and had a new name; if I'd had time I would have dropped in as their prices are pretty good and it's much bigger than my own shopping centre.

Back here, I'm still reconnecting. I didn't have many friends here when I moved out - being an insular bugger I didn't belong to sporting clubs, bridge clubs or have the school mums network to draw friends from. My friends are scattered.

My small local shopping centre, with its woefully small Coles supermarket, feels like my territory again now. I'm on nodding terms with the local dog walkers. I know all the dogs in my street - they all arrived before we moved back. I have a developed a new mental map of shops and businesses and services in my area and the surrounding suburbs.

It's taken me a few months to settle back into an altered reality of my old life. I lived in my current house since childhood until I met G. It seems odd sometimes knowing the master bedroom is ours and I'm living with G and not Mum in this house. I almost feel guilty, as if I've snuck a boyfriend home! I still miss Mum and expect her to be around; still save up things to tell her which I've learned from my friends.

Last week I know she was in the house with me. I smelt her scent, a faint hint of Johnson's baby powder, just inside the front door. I said hello. I believe she's here a lot, and helps me when I can't find things. God only knows what she thinks of the new furniture I've brought in.

My companion on Saturday was a psychic. I've mentioned her before. I was taking her to my friend's house as she was doing a reading for a party there and I was having one of the readings.

My house - my current house - came up in her reading. She said Mum was telling me to fix the window downstairs, and was being very insistent about it. I explained we had to wait for a tree root to wither and the house to settle down before we put a new sill in the window (I explained in case Mum was hovering around and listening).

The psychic told me that Mum strokes the cats and the dog, and that wouldn't surprise me. It's probably why Pwinceth Girl Kitten lies on the bed after breakfast, as Mum used to sit there in the mornings and talk to whatever cat we had at the time.

She told me that Mum and Nan watch over me, and I believe they do. My house is pleasantly haunted. You know, that actually makes me happy.