In Need of Tapestries

I’ve read enough Phillipa Gregory novels to know a little of what life was like in The Olden Days. I tend to view the sixteenth Century in a romantic light, and imagine the dresses, and jolly jousts, Henry the Eighth as a handsome Titian youth, and no plastic to dispose of.
In truth, though, I’m sure it was all rather like hard work really, with no central heating, a fat Henry, no electricity and a serious lack of iPhones.
Can you imagine?
But I am often reminded of times of yore when I am in my house, and the contrast between what I should be able to expect in the twenty-first century and what I actually experience is extremely and infuriatingly stark.

I saw an online news feed recently where people my age were reminiscing about when they were kids, and one shared vivid memory was of the condensation that used to appear at the windows every morning in winter. Used to? Surely it’s not just me who found this laughable? I have to drag towels across my window ledges if I want to see past the river of drops that have merrily gathered upon the glass over night and settled themselves on the interface between inside and out – where the temperature difference is so small that vapour cools to water at the earliest opportunity.

It probably doesn’t help that we have no insulation in the roof, and that there are holes in the ceiling. All of these things are bound to contribute to the feeling of being at home in the Arctic when it’s cold outside.

Today, I mucked out The Dormitory. Little Seymour had a friend to stay over last night, and with all the excitement and general stuff kicking about, some serious re-organisation was required afterwards. The Friend had lost a sock, a blanket and a top in the whirlwind of fun, and it was my mission to find them. It was also a good opportunity to strip the beds and hoover the floor, to find a lost letter to the Tooth Fairy, and to unearth stashed sweets.
As I was leaning over Mini Seymour’s bed, pulling out a cushion that had jammed itself between the bed and the wall, I was horrified (yet not entirely surprised) to see that it had cleverly grown itself its very own mouldy culture.
And that is when I could totally see the benefit of tapestries, and got a strong hankering to cover the walls in drapes of thick material to form an attractive physical barrier between the cold, claggy ice-blockesque surface and the room itself.
The Four Little Seymours don’t seem to be suffering from the cold – the radiators take the edge off, so we are not quite mediaeval in our standards. But they certainly don’t want to get up and get dressed for school in the mornings, because their beds are so layered with extra duvets and blankets that they are toasty and warm and reluctant to get up. Which is fair enough.
I decided, when tidying up Mini Seymour’s bed, that she needed something to cushion her from the seeping cold of the bedroom walls, and she now has a headboard of my own design – a thick block of foam wrapped in a blanket, that will not only serve as a tapestry (of sorts) but also a bumper for her poor little bonce. It’s marvellous! The room is warmer already.
I expect that my yearning for tapestries will pass – after all, they really are just a cover up. I hope that my future walls may be so splendid in their own right, that I will want to show them off. I will marvel at their pure, simple beauty, and chuckle to myself as I remember fondly how pretty the mould colours were that grew in my house – especially on the bathroom ceiling.

It is December already. We have definitely made progress. The hole in my kitchen floor is no more! And unless Boy Seymour decides to paddle on the wet cement, by tomorrow, I’ll have somewhere to put my bin again.
But where there is progress, there is usually a corresponding step back. My oven has gone bust, and so has my ironing board. This was bad timing, as we had The Friend to stay, but luckily, by her own admission, she likes burnt food, so that was very helpful, under the circumstances.

The next week is looming, and several big things are scheduled to happen. Boy Seymour makes his debut as Joseph on Tuesday. I’m a little concerned that he doesn’t realise how much kudos comes with this role – he’s so nonchalant about it, I wonder if he’s going to give it the deserved amount of effort…
As for me, this week, I shall turn forty.
Forty.
Four. Ty.
Fortee.
It doesn’t actually help, whichever way I write it. I’d ignore it if I could, but it’s not in my nature. So instead, I plan to wear a badge, and grin and pretend I’m not lamenting the lost days of my youth.

I shall leave you with something I wrote for my own mother, when she turned forty some years ago. My brother and I crept into her bedroom early, whispering aggressively to her not to wake up and thus completely ruining the surprise. We stuck notes all over her mirror, and in amongst the small scribblings of love and kisses was a poem, etched in biro, and stuck up with tape;

“Now you are forty
You oughtn’t go borty.
Unless you go after the cake.”

That’s it, I’m afraid. There is no more. I wish I could ask my seven-year-old self just what on Earth that meant. I like to think I made up my own clever new adjective. But in truth, it’s probably just because it rhymed. I’ve no talent for poetry.

As for the Four Little Seymours, however, they are a talented bunch. There’s Boy Seymour and his starring role to look forward to. Little Seymour Number Two has earned us all a day out at a local children’s farm courtesy of her brilliant painted depiction of The Christmas Truce. Little Seymour Number One has been congratulated on her entry for the local M.P.’s Christmas card design. She won’t win, I’m sure, but it is rather good. And Mini Seymour? She is having a go at being a Wise Man on Tuesday. Her choice – she’s no angel.

Big Seymour has announced that he can fix my ironing board with the welder he’s acquired to secure the steels. So at least I won’t be getting an ironing board for my birthday. Yippee!