GO TO YOUR ROOM
Recently, I happened to come across the word crawlspace. I’ve heard it before, but as usual, it started me thinking. For one thing, the word itself is squashed up like the area it signifies, sounds uncomfortable and probably is. I thought it defined the ‘room’ in the ceiling which you access via the manhole (definitely a boy’s thing), but in fact it’s the underhouse. These are found in houses built on the flat; otherwise it’s a basement, with room to move, store things, and even live in, at a pinch.
As a small girl, investigating our underhouse was scary .. dark and musty, with cobwebs and a dirt floor, but discovering an old wind-up gramophone complete with trumpet made it worthwhile. HMV ones like this were produced in the 1900s, and so called because of their trademark terrier, listening intently to ‘His Master’s Voice’ on the record.
Anyway, I digress. Rooms took on a special significance here recently when I contracted Covid and became housebound for what seemed like forever. Exercise was largely limited to circuits of my house and occasional brave forays outside. Rooms developed new identities.
My bedroom became a hive of inactivity, housing unread books, boxes of tissues, painkillers, my cat and a hottie. [Aside: can someone please invent a refillable hottie!] It’s only 300 years ago separate sleeping rooms emerged, allowing privacy. As a child, ‘GO TO YOUR ROOM!’ was a reward in disguise. Sorry, Mum! With imagination and props, my bedroom became a tent, a cave, a gypsy caravan, a hospital. Rather like right now.
Hottie refills accompanied a cautious look outside from the porch: from ‘portico’, a columned entry to a classical temple. Nowadays ‘the tradesmen’s entrance’ doubles as a useful space for raincoats, gumboots, maybe the dog’s bed. Mine houses a wall thermometer which sent me straight back inside!
Porches often adjoin the washhouse [more politely, the laundry]: a ‘utility’ room. The toilet is another. The outhouse – with a longdrop, spiders, and shards of newspaper on a hook – is now inside and fondly nicknamed the dunny, the bog or the loo. Maybe the lavatory, despite having no washing purpose. You need the bathroom for that, even if it hasn’t got a bath. Some magazines, a poster on the wall: a room for more than, well, you know.
We spend more time in the kitchen. In medieval times, supplies were stored separately: the pantry for bread, the larder housed meat, and alcohol was stashed away in the buttery. That’s priorities for you! I don’t know where they kept the butter. The scullery was for food preparation and dishes. Makes you appreciate mod cons!
As my health improved, I could manage time in the ‘dining’ room, where I used to eat once in a while. Before Covid, that is. Mine houses a desk, a day bed for the cat, laptop and guitar. An archway takes me into the ‘lounge’ – for lounging, obviously. Slothing in front of the telly is a recuperation requirement, surely? Right now, my piano looks lonely, and is silent. A small hallway leads into two more rooms; pretty much abandoned while I remain an invalid.
So that’s about it. Not much to write home [or to ‘The Star’] about, but learning to appreciate my rooms was a Good Thing. However, I never want to hear those words ‘GO TO YOUR ROOM!’ again!
