A nineteen century feather duster once danced through the parlour in the hand of maiden wearing a white pinafore and thick black stockings.
Then there is me, with an old sock in hand and jeans.
Dusting is dusting, only the atmosphere has changed.
A nineteen century nutcracker. Obviously, not for a family of six. It could never produce cracked nuts fast enough. Instead, the dainty nutcracker was created for one of those long ago evenings where a couple would sit by the fire: Comfy-cozy, rosy cheeks, bottle of wine, soft music flaming the mood, and hands slightly touching when reaching for a cracked nut.
"Sacha? Do tell! Are you spittin' sunflower seeds while hanging out with the Homecoming Queen?" Desperate-Old-Fashion-Mother-Wants-to-Hear-You-Say-No.
A pulley. Oh the pulley. I won't even go there….
I have sold a few. I love finding these– especially the ones with a soft worn patina.
I have one, it sits in the shed collecting dust. French Husband is going to suspend it from the ceiling so "we" can hang the chandelier from it. Though he sees no reason to change the practical hook for a charming pulley. I beg to deaf ears. I threaten, I will do it myself. But as you know every couple has their codes, unspoken agreements and commitments. One of ours is: I can do whatever I want in the way of decorating. French Husband likes my taste as long as I do not drill holes in the walls, or add chunky-monkey hooks to suspend lighting. He wants to do that, when he wants to do that and that equals me waiting for a long time.
Maybe I should wear a pinafore with black stockings, "Honey do you need some dusting?" That might get him up the ladder ready to drill that little hole for me in the ceiling. I'll let you know if my ploy works.
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