For those lucky enough to have stable homes in lockdown, improving them has become a compulsion
Last week my housemate moved out, taking everything she owned, which was pretty much everything we had, with her.
She lived in this house for 10 years and had made it a true home – a soft-pink armchair from a friend who’d died, paintings from the desert community where she had worked, and a vintage cabinet you could barely close because it was so stuffed with pots and pans. She knew what to do when we blew a fuse, how often the gutters should be cleared, and why the neighbours screamed at their television on weekends in winter – “the Rabbitohs are losing again”. She had things in the attic.
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