Or perhaps not.
A great treat, though - on the recommendation of my old friend Duncan Fremlin, who is a banjo-playing real estate agent, no, a banjo player who makes a living selling real estate, Lucie Brand came today to consult on paint colours. She doesn't charge a lot and she came with a huge briefcase bulging with swatches; we spent an hour making decisions. The cool grey I chose for the hall is too much of a contrast with the soft beigey-yellow of my living-room - who'da thunk it? We chose a "greige" - a grey-beige, instead. "Wind's breath," it's called, how can I resist? My hall will be the breath of the wind! I will breeze through it like a swallow. The other colours I'd chosen, a yellow and a blue, she liked; I just needed an expert's approval. And then we chose a slightly darker greige, Revere pewter, for the chimney brick. Obviously, somebody makes a living coming up with these names; what a fun job. Or perhaps not. I can see eventually going mad.
Ridiculous to need a hand to hold through such a simple process, but it was a great help. Because - 158 different shades of grey.
There are 3 guys still upstairs at 5.30; we'd hoped they'd be finished priming today and be ready for colour tomorrow, but not even close. Of course.
My dear Wayson came for our usual Sunday night dinner last night, bearing 11 red roses. He can be my Valentine anytime. And then we watched Steve Paikin interview Anna Porter and Barry Callaghan about their careers in CanLit. Barry was particularly apt when he talked about how he hates Stephen Harper so much, he can hardly bear to mention his name. Me either.
Please be careful, Canada. There's a bit of a scandal swirling around Trudeau, yes, though it's not something appalling by any means, and I'm sorry he's had to lose his closest advisor because of it; that's not good for any of us. And just look at the alternative, the leering hyena Scheer, made in the Harper mold. Please God, no.
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