Adultiship? ... Adultery? ... Adultiness!

For years and years I've felt like a student, even though I'm not. Maybe it's because I'm a teacher - all of the studentiness just rubs off on me. This transitory feeling was reflected in the way I lived: everything seemed to have a temporary feel to it (not helped by my husband's view that packing boxes are a legitimate piece of furniture.) Last weekend, I finally did two things that, in my mind, have established me as A Real Adult.

1) I Bought a Decorative Household Item

"Grrr! Take me to your leader, earthling!"
Paintings not supplied by kindly relatives,
they're Monet prints that cover a hole in the wall.
All other decorative bits were presents from people
with a keener sense of the household aesthetic than I.

All about the functionality, me. My minimalist soul is constantly battling with the part of me that clutters spontaneously (how oh how can one be a minimalist and yet be stalked by clutter? I don't get it), so I've always bought furniture, fixtures and fittings that Serve A Purpose. And then I saw this lamp and, mesmerised by its wavy arms and the fact that it was vaguely reminiscent of an alien, I bought it. It serves no purpose other than decoration. I am so proud.

2) I Framed and Hung Pictures
Daddy Gingerbread took the husband and me down to his painting studio and showed us his paintings. We rifled through his private stash and selected two, with which we absconded to Germany. Added to that was a painting by my little sister, Emily, and a small landscape by a friend of ours - and before we knew it, we had enough eye candy for a wall or two. My husband did the technical work - measuring walls, brandishing spirit measure, hammering nails - whilst I was the Artistic Director, which (I think we all agree) is the more important task.

"It's crooked! Crooked! Straighten up that picture or you're fired! How can I expect to work like this?" (flounce.)
a.k.a The Trials of the Artistic Director

Mr G's candlestick. He brought it
into the relationship, along with two
computer monitors, three printers,
a veritable snake's nest of cables
and a chrome bookshelf that, um,
got lost in the move.

 Clearly, this signals a new chapter in my life, so in order to celebrate my inner Terence Conran, I borrowed a stack of books (chapter, books - get it? Never one to shy away from the lowest form of humour, me) from the library with impressive names like Moroccan Interiors and Decorating in Provence. I spent a pleasant afternoon looking through pictures of other people's houses. Every time Mr Gingerbread passed, he looked over my shoulder and alternately said, "Yuck" or "No".  Our divergent taste in interior design is only becoming apparent now, and it's probably a good thing, as it might have been a pre-marriage dealbreaker. My love of Cuban colonial furniture, Moroccan textiles and Provençal tilework are at odds with his idea that chrome is too pretty to be confined to the bathroom and kitchen. If either of us had enough energy to do anything as dynamic as, say, interior decoration, this might be An Issue in our marriage, but I think the divorce lawyers of Gingerbreadtown needn't get too excited yet.

Considering that it has taken me two years to hang paintings, these might be
unrealistic aspirations.