Holiday Home
a nanonovel
We came back home after a fortnight away on holiday in Whitley Bay. Even though we’d not been far – not much over fifty miles, in fact – the house looked entirely different on our return.
We noticed the effect as soon as we entered the hall. The colours had changed, for a start. The carpet was brighter than before. The living room suite was a zingier shade of burgundy. The objects on the sideboard – the photos, the faux-stone water feature – were drawing attention to themselves in an unaccustomed, startling way. The kitchen sparkled; even the grimy mosaic-patterned lino gleamed like a walkway of small gems.
It was as if someone had fiddled with the colour and contrast knobs in every room of the house. Everything, from the dust on the upstairs banister to the scuffmarks on the downstairs skirting, had suddenly come alive.
We couldn’t put our finger on it for a while. We were disappointed when everything returned to its normal dullness after a couple of days. Then we realised, quite suddenly, that the dullness was us.
Our fortnight away had given the house the chance to wake up, restore its batteries, rediscover its vim, and live a little. Separated from our grey, dreary predictability and mind-crushingly boring routines, it had experienced something of a liberation. In other words, it had had a holiday, too.
We decided to go away more often after that. We didn’t want to cramp its style.
We came back home after a fortnight away on holiday in Whitley Bay. Even though we’d not been far – not much over fifty miles, in fact – the house looked entirely different on our return.
We noticed the effect as soon as we entered the hall. The colours had changed, for a start. The carpet was brighter than before. The living room suite was a zingier shade of burgundy. The objects on the sideboard – the photos, the faux-stone water feature – were drawing attention to themselves in an unaccustomed, startling way. The kitchen sparkled; even the grimy mosaic-patterned lino gleamed like a walkway of small gems.
It was as if someone had fiddled with the colour and contrast knobs in every room of the house. Everything, from the dust on the upstairs banister to the scuffmarks on the downstairs skirting, had suddenly come alive.
We couldn’t put our finger on it for a while. We were disappointed when everything returned to its normal dullness after a couple of days. Then we realised, quite suddenly, that the dullness was us.
Our fortnight away had given the house the chance to wake up, restore its batteries, rediscover its vim, and live a little. Separated from our grey, dreary predictability and mind-crushingly boring routines, it had experienced something of a liberation. In other words, it had had a holiday, too.
We decided to go away more often after that. We didn’t want to cramp its style.
© 2004 & 2007 Jules Horne
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