Dear Joanie,

Got lost, this morning. Burke’s fault, for pointing out to me that I’ve gained two pounds since last year. I was horrified, and decided to walk to the village in the morning, instead of going by car.

First time I’ve ever done that – it’s only a few hundred meters, but I couldn’t figure out for the life of me which path to take, and which one not to, amid all those wretched vineyards here in the Bordeaux area.

Reminds me of a time in Russia with Peter. We’d had another thunderous fight, you know how temperamental he was, and I resolved to walk off by myself – let him stew a little. Like meat, men get tenderer and more palatable when left in the pan for longish whiles. This was in the swamp lands south of Suzdal. Suzdal is a touristy spot, but guess what? The swamp lands under Suzdal are not, as it turned out!

And of course the Russian peasants living there didn’t speak one word of English, so it was all rather disastrous. I believe I’ve been walking round and round, in the scorching sun, for five hours. Very bad for the complexion. I came back so exhausted and unnerved that the wholesome effects of stewing were completely lost. Peter lay perfectly happily zapping Russian television in our hotel room. You can imagine how furious I was.

Lots of mosquitoes, at the moment. And they always go for the better quality of blood, don’t they? Pulled the sheets completely off of Burke, last night, as he slept on his stomach, his bare back forming the perfect landing area. And still those wretched creatures went after me. Isn’t it always like that?

Love,

Lisa

Dear Joanie,

I’m thinking that what I really need is a widower. Burke is wonderful, of course, but he’s a serial divorcer, and though I don’t think for a moment he would want to ditch me (one has to be modest, but what man in his right mind has ever ditched me?), it makes for a difficult experience.

They get so contentious, don’t they. Divorcés, I mean.  The widower, on the other hand, is saddened by his loss, humbled by fate as it were, and eternally grateful to find a new mother for his children. Even if his children are 45, as Jason’s were, when he so forcefully pursued me. The widower knows the value of life and of love, and doesn’t want to waste another minute arguing. Which, preferably, results in him agreeing with me in most things. Or at least a damn sight more often than Burke does. 

If you think of it, Burke, through his many combative marriages, has been trained to fight. And he has been trained by one of the best in the field – I am speaking of Alice, of course. So his neurons are lined up to get argumentative and heated at the drop of a hat. Which means I have to be the mature party, and though as you know I pride myself on being very tolerant and wise, in spite of my precocious age (“old as a sequoia, young as a fawn”, I once wrote in a poem about myself), it takes a toll on my nerves to be the adult. If I wanted children, I’d have them the ordinary way, you see what I mean?

If divorcés are hardened combatants, Burke is a Green Beret. He ambushes, he snipes, he carpet bombs. I am getting severely fatigued from being the adult. Perhaps I should encourage him to take up a hobby. Like Thai boxing or oil wrestling, what do you think?

Dear Dottie,

My tennis playing days are definitively over. Went to the club last night with dr. Veltman – not that he plays, of course. Dr. Veltman has never touched a ball in his life.

Oh, untrue – he informs me that he played soft ball in grammar school, as an unfit 15 year old. He was awful at it, but did once score a homerun. There was strangely little opposition, he noticed, as he ran his round of glory around the bases. When he arrived, triumphantly, at home base, he saw a group of people standing around something. They turned angrily to him. In their midst lay, on the ground, a girl. Turned out that after he had struck the ball – in itself a most unexpected event – and thrown the bat away to start his run, the bat had hit a classmate in the head. She was unconscious. He doesn’t know what became of her.

At the club, dr. Veltman drinks wine and smokes small cigars, staring at the players in an off-putting way. Now and then he shakes his head slowly and sadly, which can put less confident tennis players right off their service..

I happened to watch a women’s game (no men playing, or I wouldn’t have, of course) and it was not pretty. These women have no sense of dress or dignity. A huge girl, fairly young, carried frightening amounts of fat on her stomach. As I’ve always said: all women should watch their figure, but tall girls should subside on dry salt crackers entirely. If there’s too much of you on one axis, you can’t afford branching out on another axis.

Not only was this girl huge, she wore her t shirt tucked into her shorts. I wouldn’t have dreamed of showing up in anything but a stylish tailor made skirt, in my day – mind you, nothing so extravagant as these Williams girls wear on the tour. Flashy and vulgar. But shorts on a woman are just horrifying. This girl’s looked to be made of nylon, and very tightly followed her giant thighs. 

And as she stood there, labouring away at her service, sweat glistening on that big forehead, I realized at once that I can never play again. How could I try to beat such a girl, whose day depends on a win in these silly club championships? She has nothing else in her life!

I know I’m famous for saying plain girls have it easy, and on the whole that is true – any moderately confident plain girl has the world as her oyster. But there are of course limits as to how far you can push being plain. And she pushed the envelope. I would have been unable to muster the will to beat this girl. As I’d look at that desperate, red face, and the large, awkward, labouring body, I would have been frightened lest the last bit of light would depart from those lifeless, tragic eyes.

So I shall play no more. Oh, a little mixed double now and then, purely for recreational purposes – but no competition. Truly, if I weren’t so soft hearted, I would probably have been a formidable player. I have fabulous technique, my teacher always told me (and not only at tennis, he said, but that’s another subject.) I suppose I might have made it to Wimbledon.

Bought a book called “Controlling People” by Patricia Evans. What do you think – there’s no instructions in it, whatever! False advertising I call that. I will toss it into the bin.

Love,

Lisa

Dear Joanie,

Burke may have had a little point about cleaning surfaces. But only for high gloss paints. With latex, you can successfully clean every surface with your paint brush, and you never have to touch water and detergent again. But today I painted over a door, and I must say, high gloss paint does not take at all, on greasy surfaces. A bit of a disappointment.

And a little warning: directly after painting a door, open that door. Because if you paint over locks and hinges, you may never have the chance, again.

Love,

Lisa

Dear Candace,

Did you know you can not only wash, but sculpt, with a paint brush?

I don’t know why working people always make such a Big Fuss about menial labour. Yes, it is tiring, and should not be done for long spells on end. But it can be quite riveting. It’s all in one’s attitude, I always say.

I’ve learned a few things, along the line. Of course Burke keeps admonishing me about cleaning surfaces first, before you paint on them, and then adding anti-mold layers and primer and all that nonsense.

Well, between you and me, none of that is necessary! You can paint right over the filth. At first, I gingerly covered only very small specks of crummy matter, but as I went along, my confidence grew, and ultimately I ‘washed’ entire doors and wall panelings.

It’s so easy! Oh, how they keep telling one it can’t be done – that the surface must be cleaned.Pfff! And nobody ever tells you why, do they? It’s just a dogma. Like socialism and communism. And they hold to it so religiously! Well, it’s poppycock. You can paint right over anything, provided it doesn’t stick out too much, and if it’s something still wet or moist, you’ve got to watch out in case you accidentally ‘paint’ other areas with that very stuff – which has happened to me, and set me back half an hour, as I had to wait for it to dry and then apply some more paint.

Sculpting: same thing. Any cracks in the wall, or between the door and the wall, can be filled if you apply the paint very generously, and set to work with confidence. You must make bold strokes, or it won’t work. It really is a confidence game, painting one’s house.

My hallway looks like new. Now I just need to get Burke up the ladder to do the higher bits. He has a fear of heights, so I’ll have to be forceful.

Do come over and see my work, soon!

Love,

Lisa

Dear Joanie,

I gave up on the bedroom windows, after my little mishap yesterday. Painting, I decided, was going to be much more fun.

The wall across from my bed looked grey and filthy, so I thought I’d paint it a merry blue. Burke told me I should first clean the wall, then apply an anti-mold layer, then an undercoat, and then finally the merry blue paint. I tried it, on about 1 square foot, and it was awful. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. So I simply painted one layer, didn’t bother to clean the wall, then decided the radiator would also look prettier if you couldn’t see the dirt on it, so I painted over the dirt, and by God it looks great. Turns out you don’t need special radiator paint, at all!

As for the wall, I can positively say now that cleaning it first, let alone all the mold and undercoat nonsense, is utterly unnecessary, and only done by people who like to punish themselves. I just removed some spider webs with my hand, and brushed off a little soot here and there. Didactually fill little holes in the wall with some stuff from a tube, which one is supposed to leave drying for hours – nonsense, again, you can paint over it within a few minutes.

But even without all the masochistic primer and mold and other obsessive-compulsive stuff, it was exhausting. I broke out in a most unpleasant sweat, and you know how I always pride myself on never sweating.

I suppose I will call this my Year of Living Rough, and write a book about it, later. I do think I am reaching interesting insights, that others could benefit from. But how long will I be able to go on like this? I am very fond of Burke, but I’m slowly losing the will to live.

Love,

Lisa