Shhh! Scribbler at Work

Picnic or Nitpick??

[prompt: 'ruin' 9.11.2018]

It was a ruin.

Not officially. Not according to the real estate agent lady who vocalised constantly and eloquently about its potential, its bargain basement price. Interspersed amongst her bright and breezy positivity was the constant sympathetic exclamation "I know... Yes. I know...", in answer to our increasingly concerned observations.

She didn't accompany us on our several inspections. "The owners are almost always home. I'll phone first to make sure." And innocently, "Best you have a wander around by yourself. Get a 'feel' for the place, you know?" And so she never came with us. In retrospect we believe we DID wonder about that, but chose to accept her words.

A massive lending interest increase had left us blameless but broke. Our desire for another farm to replace our lost treasure kept us searching, although hopes had faded throughout that terrible year. We were finally in acceptance mode - this disaster of a stone home and 28 acres was all we could dream of affording. Square one felt exceedingly small to revisit - salt most painfully rubbed into the wounds of our losses.

"We'll fix it up," we told each other bravely. "Done it before. At least this time it's a solid stone house." Later, on closer inspection we would come to understand the destruction salt damp had caused along the entire lower two-thirds of the long back wall. Overgrown bushes hid this SO well.

"I'll build you a bathroom and a proper toilet," my builder/farmer husband said confidently.

"And a proper laundry? And built-in cupboards in the Kitchen, apart from that lonely sink cupboard?" Amazing how well words can emerge through gritted teeth.

"It'll look better when all their rubbish is cleared out. Don't you worry!" I didn't doubt that observation, after needing to walk sideways crab-fashion through most of the house. It was a reasonable assumption, and partially accurate, BUT... [there just had to be one of those, didn't there? ONE?]

We had a bonfire of the combustibles left in their wake, and the local scrap-metal guy's costs were almost covered by the truckloads of hard stuff - including rusted out car bodies, machinery, poultry cages and anonymous metal somethings. Then there were the amazing number of once upon a time domestic cats the previous owners had been sort-of feeding - interbred, sick, diseased - and wild beyond redemption. When finally caught, there was no other choice than euthanasia. The veterinary surgeon took pity on us and gave us a bulk deal on that miserable service.

Way before these 'halcyon' days, when first it was legally ours, we'd thought it novel to picnic in the middle of the now empty Lounge room. With everything all set out and our three kids and us sitting around on a rug, we began... to start getting hundreds of tiny stinging bites that turned into uncontrollable itching. The old carpet and floorboards themselves were infested in plague proportions with ravenous fleas.

WE were the picnic!