Tiling

Benedict Ambrose and I are now the proud owners of a functional bath shower room. All that remains is for the project manager to receive a last bit of wallboard, for the joiner to put it in, and for the decorator to paint the plaster. The tile floor glows like an angel. 

I am rather in love with the tile floor. It is almost funny now that I treated the designer's catalogues like horrendous math textbooks--or worse, a tax guide--and left it up to B.A. to choose the myriad of expensive stuff that goes in a bathroom. Now I pore over the pages of tiles, dreaming about tiling the tiny foyer--and eventually the kitchen floor--and maybe even the porch. 

Having unlocked the savings account to pay for the works, I am in a spendy mood and tempted to tile my own self. During our luxurious Stockbridge weekend, eating top quality bread and cheese, I bought and read two books on Parisian style I found in charity shops: Alois Guinut's Dress Like a Parisian and Ines de la Fressange's Parisian Chic. Guinut subsequently wrote a book called Why Frenchwomen Wear Vintage, so she would probably approve of me buying her work in Cancer Research UK. Also, her ideas are not necessarily ruinous to the pocketbook. I particularly liked her nonchalant attitude to make-up and hair. 

Horizontally stripped shirts about in both these volumes, and I was pleased to find a nice pale-blue and white one by Boden for £4 or so in Mary's Living and Giving Shop. I have been less pleased to notice navy-and-white striped shirts on several members of the 70-something set wherever I go. Obviously the 70-something set may wear whatever they like, but I have joined the ranks of those who have reason to fear looking even older than we are. (Although why do we? Would grandmotherly softness not attract more social cache than the harsh battleaxe lines of middle life?)

Normally I dress out of the House of Bruar catalogue when I am not simply slobbing around in my gym clothes, so the idea of Parisian dressing (especially on the cheap) is rather beguiling.

More importantly, B.A. managed to get himself into the massive walk-in shower, pulling himself along by hanging onto the grab rails. He then sat firmly on the fold-down seat under the rain nozzle. We think we might need one more grab rail, and I think we need to affix a hook for his bathrobe on the far end. Putting on his bathrobe by himself was his scariest task. The short-term goal is for B.A. to be fully independent while washing. 

The long-term goal, of course, is for him to leap about like a mountain goat. When that day comes, he will have to dance with me: he promised! 

In fact, I might sign him up for swing-dancing class. One day, years ago, he appeared in the hall when I was taking a Saturday swing-dance workshop. I dropped my partner like a hot potato and hurried over to my cherished spouse. Alas, B.A. had only taken it into his head to say hello, and he went off to read the Spectator or the Times Review of Books in silly old Starbucks.