Carpetgate: A reminder of the power of mediation

Dateline:  North London, 22 June 2021

On January 5th, 2018, I'm sitting in a board room in Oklahoma City, with 4 white men (one of which is my father). Two are lawyers, one is a lawyer and a mediator and (he is quick to point out) a card-carrying Union member. I'm not sure why he mentioned this, unless he wanted solidarity with the other registered Democrat in the room. 

It was one of the most emotionally grueling days of my life, that mediation session. But the mediator gave me this piece of wisdom: 'No one leaves mediation happy. Mediation isn't about happiness or satisfaction. It's about being able to move forward. It's about being able to breathe again.'

I don't HATE carpet. It has its place. I have a work field trip to The Museum of Carpet in Kidderminster planned.  I know! Who knew??

But I do love a good hard wood floor and I will confess to being irrationally attached to these particular floors. 

These particular floors were discovered during a renovation was the rose in a rather thorny garden of grief, life, endings and beginnings (including a mercifully broken fake engagement).  This particular move (a move in which I do not phsycially relocate all of my adorably mismatched luggage) is a weird one. Packing up the detritus of another person's life, no matter how well you know them, is another thing altogether. It is confusing and tumultuous.  

This particular carpet is the by-product of 62 hours of work negotiating with neighbours, solictors, estate agents and a particularly trying set of buyers. How do you mitigate against the deep sense of 'This isn't going to come off,' limit expense, keep your client happy and not sh*t over the future happiness of other people? You can't. There is no way you can twist and tie yourself up thusly. 

Given my current perimenopausal state of play, is it odd? I haven't cried yet? Shocking, I know, given that last week I cried over a dead baby bird. I've samba'd across the floor, lain down on the new carpet, listening to Eric Dolphy, watching the sunlight peek behind an almost autumnal sky. But I haven't cried. Is that because I've been the mediator?

The flat itself fills me with confusion because I'm not overly fond of Muswell Hill. It feels so... suburban, so middle class, almost passionless. It feels uncomfortable and itchy, a place that confuses me. It is an exception to the rule of being 'on or off the bus.' Ambiguous. And we all know I don't necessarily thrive in ambiguous circumstances. But it isn't mine, I just got tasked (reluctantly but in one of those awkwardly fortuitous shifts of life?) with looking after it.  

The buyers baffle me. I mean, we all have moments of being exceptionally high maintenance. But I don't remember being  THAT couple, not about housing. The first house I ever bought with another person was in New Orleans and it wasn't meant to be. 

The second, the Corner House, is a labor of love lost and regained. It keeps me safe and warm and I try to do it justice and honour. But even then, I had a break point and we didn't get there. 

These buyers? I've never met people like 'em. Or maybe I have, back when I managed a wedding cake shop on Cincinnati, which was 20 years ago this month, now that I think about it. That is eerie timing, is it not? Symmetry and synchronicity, these moments, these days. 

Oh! And whilst we're discussing post-renovation realities, anyone fancy a trip to Riga????

https://europeandesign.org/submissions/the-homecoming-roche-in-riga-a-historic-remediation/

note to self: girl, you need to clean and polish those boots.