RUSTIC RELEASE

ALL THAT WAS OLD IS NEWLY ANNOYING FOR ROB INGRAM, WHO SETS ABOUT DE-CLUTTERING AND TAKING BACK HIS SPACE IN THE PANDEMIC WORLD.

PERHAPS PEOPLE JUST

weren’t meant to be trapped in their rustic retreats 24/7, multiplied by however many weeks it has been. It does funny things to you, like double de-clutching your lifestyle into reverse. I stumbled into the country squire existence with nothing but high spirits, methylated spirits, a small cocktail cabinet of assorted spirits, and a fork for toasting marshmallows in case stocks ran low. Okay, and maybe a misconception or two.

And then began the acquisition period. The Chosen One and I were first arrivals at country property clearing sales across a wide tract of the eastern and central parts of the state, bidding giddily on anything we didn’t recognise but assumed was essential to country living. It reached the point where any new acquisition that came in through the front door meant earlier purchases had to be squeezed out the back door.

We were so besotted with ‘rustic’ that we set about making the house more in keeping with the clearing-sale junk. We scraped away the plaster, sanded back the joinery to bare timber, replaced good hardware with rusty hinges and battered door knobs, while removing the light fittings in favour of kerosene lamps.

It was out with the new and in with the old. The sofa made way for an old shearers’ couch, the kitchen furniture for a scrubbed pine table with wooden chairs and a Victorian plate rack above an applewood butcher’s block. We installed old bookshelves and sideboards and towel racks and hall stands and glass-fronted cabinets. We cooked in a wood slow-combustion stove and felt guilty that we weren’t cooking in the fireplace like the original habitants of this old house. We might have been cluttered, but we were authentic rustic.

Over the decades the clutter became sort of invisible. It became part of the wallpaper. It was familiar, it was expected, it was acquainted, it was au fait, au courant, OMG. It was the comfortable domestic landscape from which we would come and go, and when we returned it was the same welcoming sanctuary.

Well, I’m here to tell you that self isolation changes all that. In the prison system, isolation is more correctly called solitary confinement and is known to cause an array of psychological disorders and trauma. The pandemic world of self isolation demands that you start questioning everything you’ve ever taken for granted. It makes you crave change and it makes you crave open space around you.

So what am I bid for this antique washstand, so solid that it remained unmarked when I destroyed my anterior cruciate ligaments on it a few days ago? And this ornate mantelpiece in mint condition, except for the bloodstains where I collided with it in the dark the other night? Of course, I could only blame my shelf.

And don’t all rush me at once for the two classic occasional chairs that sit on either side of the telephone table, blocking access to the front door. The hall stand and the umbrella stand can go too, allowing the lounge door to open properly, and I’m prepared to take a very competitive price on the traditional credenza and hutch that guard the entrance to the office. The same goes for the hanging meat safe on which the forensically minded will detect scalp tissue and hair.

The buffet and the bureau and the bowfront chest are superfluous to the post-isolation mental state, too. They can all go to the lowest bidder, and if he doesn’t want them, I’ll be happy to set fire to them as soon as I can find my 19th-century phosphorus friction matches and Edwardian vesta box.

Yep, life has certainly been turned upside down.

“THE PANDEMIC WORLD OF SELF ISOLATION DEMANDS THAT YOU START QUESTIONING EVERYTHING YOU’VE EVER TAKEN FOR GRANTED.”