‘Firewood’, says Tom, as he unloads a Victorian church pew from his van onto my driveway. The wood is scratched, worn. But solid and true.
I purse my lips. ‘No, you’re wrong. There’s hope here yet’.
A hundred and fifty years ago, a craftsman smiled as he put down his plane. The pew would be ready by Christmas. His nephew was first to sit (jump!) on it at Midnight Mass, swinging his toddler legs. He held a christingle, then cried.
Chalk paint, I think. Grey? Farrow and Ball? Two coats later, it’s perfect in the hall.
I purse my lips. ‘No, you’re wrong. There’s hope here yet’.
A hundred and fifty years ago, a craftsman smiled as he put down his plane. The pew would be ready by Christmas. His nephew was first to sit (jump!) on it at Midnight Mass, swinging his toddler legs. He held a christingle, then cried.
Chalk paint, I think. Grey? Farrow and Ball? Two coats later, it’s perfect in the hall.
