Paradise is slowly beginning to aid my recovery from losing our dream home. I may be ready to resurface into the world of Blogdom!?

I’m a little silent: I’ve got so much to say but feel thwarted by the fear of being jinxed.   

This current overwhelming fear has made me think about superstition.   I can’t remember the last time I walked under a ladder.     I can remember as a child trying to walk only on the cracks in the pavement.     Even now frantically counting the number of magpies and a distant memory of a periodic phase of reading my stars in the free paper on my way home hoping to get an insight into how my week would pan out!    

Fingers crossed! 

Well we have survived two weeks of living in Barbara The Bongo, twenty four seven, and we still like each other and are speaking.   It must be love.    I adore this photo it looks like light is coming out of Bab’s elevated roof, she is shining from within.    

Thank you to my wonderful cousin Gordon for the loan of her, she is now a member of the family.     We managed to drive into the remotest spots to set camp for the night and luckily weren’t mauled by the midges!   

So whilst all of my London friends have been sweltering in the heatwave, bronzing themselves, I’ve been mainly a passenger driving around Scotland in the wind and rain wearing a jumper!    Now I have to say I’ve been a little relieved not to have to had to commute during the heatwave.   Has it finished?     Am I safe to come back South?

1. Mountain Road Trip Day 5 – Scotland’s scenery is just breathtaking: the dramatic mountains quietly reflected in the loch.     A mirage appeared as we walked round the glen, just over seven miles I hasten to add, in the form of Mhor!   A Michelin Starred restaurant within a hotel which oozes a quirky style and ambience that would be at home in Soho!   Scotland just gets better and better!

We have fallen in love!  Aberfeldy in Perthshire seems to tick all the boxes: boutique shops, mountains, a cinema and even a river running through it!     Bonus is a Celidah every Thursday, need I say more?

Our early morning house guest arrived at 7.30 this morning: the concophany of the pelting rain and the begging bleats are certainly a change from the dawn chorus of South West London!     We are up to view a house which is totally off the grid, on our little recce last night in the howling wind we realised it was 3 miles up an unmade road over three bridges!     Today we will see it in the pouring rain so I certainly won’t be wearing my rose tinted spectacles!     

I’m currently queuing to board a plane to Inverness in search of a mountain, my hair greased down with expensive shampoo and conditioner (you should be proud Daniel Pierpoint).      Now I know it’s extravagant but my aged hair does not react well to chlorine and as a swimmer I invested in Bumble and Bumble shampoo and conditioner to tame the frizz!    

However, I am jinxed; always after purchasing new bottles I leave them somewhere.    This being my third time, you would have hoped I would have learned!     Having only just picked up this set from Arundel, where I had left them two months previously,  I was adamant I would not leave them in the hotel in Rye.   So diligently I washed my hair and put them straight in my bag, forgetting it was my carry on bag for our flight today.

Watching my bag being directed to the naughty lane at baggage security left me confused, I was sure I had no liquids so when the man said you’ve got two rather large containers of liquids I gasped with shock, and then despair!

He pulled out my Bumble and Bumble and I said NO!   The alternatives were not looking good: to miss the flight by going back to the long stay car park to put them in the car, or pay almost the cost of the shampoo to check them in and then risk missing the flight by repeating departures.    I asked if we could post them home and he said airport post boxes are designed not to take anything bulky – a consequence of terrorism!

Waste is something that I find painful!    Hence my hair caked in shampoo and conditioner:  I smell very good, however, I look like I’m from the set of Grease and I’m not meaning a pink lady!  

Having just seen the thought provoking exhibition “Behind the mask, another mask” at the National Portrait Gallery it’s made me reflect about how one’s job defines us and our identity.

Since the age of 23 I had worked in the art industry and I can remember the fear I had when, 9 years ago, I left my last gallery, Burlington Gallery, to work in the cloth/fashion trade.    I felt I had lost who I was, I was no longer the Gallery Girl that I had been for 14 years, and I had no idea who this new persona would be.     You allow people to see you through the mask of your job: their perceptions of working in an art gallery was always considered rather glamorous and had a certain panache and kudos.    It was  like they didn’t need to know anything more about you allowing you to hide your true self.

With age comes wisdom and, in truth, it transpires you are always you, whatever your mask, and I’m always going to be that Gallery Girl but now with a passion for clothes too.

With that in mind, when my partner moved into the flat, he kindly pointed out that I had a large quantity of clothes, a lot of which he had never see me wear, to this end, I now have a number of suitcases in the loft and a wardrobe full of his clothes!    So, when I live near, or on, my mountain I will make sure I wear every item of clothing I own and make a photographic journal.   I may not wear them in public should they be on the small side and may have to update some of them, but, they will be worn!

I have already warned Simon that he will be hearing the whirr of my sewing machine as I create fashion statements that I wasn’t brave enough to wear in Mayfair!      At last, the time for eccentricity.

One of the first blogs I followed was WIT, Wearing It Today, which was a diary of a fashion stylist showing photographs of her daily outfits….. my take on this will be Wearing WHAT today?

I feel like I’m living on a continual conveyor belt with intermittent side escapes to my mountain: Wales, Scotland, Hereford or the Isle of Wight.    Who knows where we will end up, it’s now my turn to follow my partner.      Giving up the decision on where to live is extremely terrifying and it’s a first for me.

They do say that moving home is one of the most stressful life events apart from divorce and the death of a parent.    I wonder if the period when you are trying to sell the property is included in this?      I obviously enjoy a challenge as it appears I’m trying to sell the flat in one of the most difficult and unpredictable markets estate agents have known for a number of years all thanks to Brexit and a General Election.      

We had an offer on the flat on Friday, which although low, was enough for my attention to be pricked.    And so, the game begins, surely everyone expects their first offer to be rejected and generally expects that they will have to come back with a counter offer?      Waiting for their next move is excruciatingly painful especially when patience is an attribute I’m always trying to muster.      I must remember to breath.