Wussy

Mercutio, Portrait of a Lady (the rosebud), a glancing blow from a careless talon. I am trying to work out why sometimes chance things matter so much, when maybe at another time we wouldn't even notice. I am saying my pride is hurt and it takes all the pleasure out of my projects. It wasn't even a criticism of the standard of my work, but I seem to be taking it as such. It feels like a mortal blow, to know that someone holds what I hold dear in contempt.

The one other time this happened was when we got a report from some subcontracted surveyor for the Crown when we were at Park Village, saying our front garden was "over-planted". I still don't know what it means although at the time I said a lot about small suburban minds and 6" of bare earth between the lobelia and the petunia. I dearly loved every inch of my garden and while the front hardly featured, I found it handsome and satisfying with its black railings, cream paint, fastigiate yews flanking the windows, solanum climbing the narrow trellis around the French doors of the little balcony, and dark ivy as ground cover. And yet reading that report was the moment I knew I would sell the house, it suddenly just wasn't mine.

I have put in the new double doors to my closet - straight at last after some pointers from Steve, and I have the first experimental coat of paint in there - it is a serious step to paint wood panelling, so the closet is a test for the rest of the room. The house is knee-deep in sawdust and I have my chop saw, the circular saw and reciprocating saw set up, clothes piled high on the bed, and here I am demoralised. Can't go out because Stefan took my car.

I think I will eat chocolate.