We have just moved into an old, old cottage which holds the memories of many previous tenants… and their decorative quirks.

The kitchen has a bright red splashback reminiscent of a retro diner, and a wooden mantlepiece made Dracula with a cloak of black paint.

The bathroom – a semi-detached space lined with asbestos – sports a shower cubicle the colour of hospital scrubs and charcoal linoleum laid directly on the earth.

In the living room, some patient soul has painted the individual gumnuts in the decorative cornice to resemble sultanas…

…and the property came with a one eyed cat named Waddlesworth.

During our first 24 hours in residence, Jord and I vowed to rip off the splashback, pull up the lino and subdue the hues that so offended us.

But over the following days we settled into these gaudy ways, making quiet peace with pieces of the past, feeling the rightness – and politeness – of not only pausing before putting our mark on this place but, in the longer term, making do.

Makedo.

Makédō

Make Do.

We could buy new tiles, replace the shower and ditch the old cat in favour of a kitten with binocular vision.

Or we could chill.

I’m reading The War Below by Ernest Scheyder which is about the global transition to “green” energy and all the lithium, copper and rare earths mining it will require. New mines on sacred lands. The old story of more stuff.

In The Art of Frugal Hedonism, Annie Raser-Rowland and Adam Grubb describe “the joy of not renovating".

Retrofitting for comfort and efficiency is one thing, but I wonder how far we can stretch our taste to create less waste? Is pausing before replacing a perfectly functional thing the first, and easiest, rule of sustainability? What makes something ugly? What makes something ugly/beautiful?

We will content ourselves to paint the splashback, leave the asbestos alone and pat the cast off cat till he shines.

This makedo life ♥️

Two stiff-collared businessmen just made my day.

While sitting in a St Kilda cafe, doodling in my diary like the consummate dweeb, one took pity on me and struck up a conversation.

You look deep in thought, he said.

Nah, just contemplating another bliss ball, said I.

Property developer, he said.

Copywriter, I returned.

We both had little clue what the other actually did, but found common ground in gardening, good health and seaweed fertilisers.

This high fallutin’ businessman, previously discussing a multi-million-dollar development with his portly sidekick, told me liked to grow chamomile and strawberries on his teensy city porch.

Just feels good, he said.

The other chimed in about people’s skewed priorities, how he sees ambitious youngsters chasing mansions and Mercedes all strung out on stimulants at the expense of what matters: community, connection, nature.

Woah, I thought. Either these guys had secret hippie-approved conversation cards hidden under the table...

...or they really did give a shit.

I reckon it’s the latter.

They reminded me that most of us, (all of us?), no matter how we earn our crust, no matter if we go for sourdough or wonderwhite, just want a good life. Just want to connect with others and try our best and feel happy in our bodies.

And the smallest green frond on a business mogul's balcony is a hopeful sign. We’re earth people, all of us.

Except maybe David Bowie who was sent from the stars.