In Five years time
Without Prejudice
In five years I will be living in Queensland for six months of the year, maybe longer. From April to October would be good, the weather improves in Melbourne around then and it starts to get too hot in Queensland, so perfect. And I would write and the kids, could come for a break and stay for a week. I'd love it. It would have to be a beach beach house with lots of light and flyscreens on all the windows. I will dress the windows with white muslin and just let the breezes blow through open windows and puff and billow the curtains out.
It will have wooden steps leading to the beach, four, weathered and grey, covered lightly in sand. The house will have a corridor running from front to back, rooms off, wooden boards because of the look and feel, smooth, worn down by lots of happy holiday feet running back and forth. It would have a verandah all around of Victorian lace, old comfy couches and chairs everywhere and book cases with great novels and new books as well.
There will be a fities kitchen with glass fronted cabinets a fat old cream fridge and a green laminex table with fifties chrome chairs upholstered in vinyl with studs around the edges. In the fridge will be frosted glass jugs of cordial, cottees of course. There will be a swimming pool to one side for the days when people have had enough sand. At night the old house will groan and settle down creaking in the boards.
We will be in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Something with a salad dredged with lemon mustard. There will be a glass of wine at the ready, cool, sweating it's sides in condensation, when I pop ice in it, the ice will snap and crackle. The kids will be in bed, worn out from another day in the sun, running, laughing. There will be a cubby somewhere built into a tree with a wooden ladder to it and it will have Secret Club House written on the outside in wobbly writing and hopefully misspelled.
I will have a room to myself, for writing, just writing and lots of fresh coffee and cream. Fresh fruit in a bowl next to me and flowers, one bunch, freshly picked from that morning.
To be Continued
In five years I will be living in Queensland for six months of the year, maybe longer. From April to October would be good, the weather improves in Melbourne around then and it starts to get too hot in Queensland, so perfect. And I would write and the kids, could come for a break and stay for a week. I'd love it. It would have to be a beach beach house with lots of light and flyscreens on all the windows. I will dress the windows with white muslin and just let the breezes blow through open windows and puff and billow the curtains out.
It will have wooden steps leading to the beach, four, weathered and grey, covered lightly in sand. The house will have a corridor running from front to back, rooms off, wooden boards because of the look and feel, smooth, worn down by lots of happy holiday feet running back and forth. It would have a verandah all around of Victorian lace, old comfy couches and chairs everywhere and book cases with great novels and new books as well.
There will be a fities kitchen with glass fronted cabinets a fat old cream fridge and a green laminex table with fifties chrome chairs upholstered in vinyl with studs around the edges. In the fridge will be frosted glass jugs of cordial, cottees of course. There will be a swimming pool to one side for the days when people have had enough sand. At night the old house will groan and settle down creaking in the boards.
We will be in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Something with a salad dredged with lemon mustard. There will be a glass of wine at the ready, cool, sweating it's sides in condensation, when I pop ice in it, the ice will snap and crackle. The kids will be in bed, worn out from another day in the sun, running, laughing. There will be a cubby somewhere built into a tree with a wooden ladder to it and it will have Secret Club House written on the outside in wobbly writing and hopefully misspelled.
I will have a room to myself, for writing, just writing and lots of fresh coffee and cream. Fresh fruit in a bowl next to me and flowers, one bunch, freshly picked from that morning.
To be Continued
