{"id":3078,"date":"2026-01-17T09:31:54","date_gmt":"2026-01-17T09:31:54","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/self-editing.com\/?p=3078"},"modified":"2026-01-17T09:31:54","modified_gmt":"2026-01-17T09:31:54","slug":"lesson-7-no-place-like-a-strangers-home","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/self-editing.com\/?p=3078","title":{"rendered":"Lesson 7 No place like a stranger’s home"},"content":{"rendered":"Not bad\u2026 not bad at all. Always a risk, housesitting for a stranger. You never know what the house will be like, but so far, so good.
Maz opened the door to the semi-detached inner-city home that she had agreed to look after for the next three weeks. It was well positioned with views over the harbour. And importantly, it would give her the space to write.
With a writer\u2019s eye, nothing escaped her attention. Walking down the corridor, she stopped to study the series of black and white photographs, gallery quality. She leaned in to see who the photographer was. The name matched the owner she had been communicating with.
\u2018Wow, professional,\u2019 she said to no-one.
When she reached the loungeroom, it was cosy. An open fireplace. A deep red leather lounge, and chairs that Maz already knew she would spend substantial time in, reading or listening to music. The art works in this room were eclectic and inviting of scrutiny. There was a story to each piece, Maz felt. Some Indigenous, Japanese, European\u2026 but all cohesive in their shared space.
The kitchen was a dream. Clearly someone with culinary skills lived here. Copper pans hanging from a rack, an AGA oven, that belonged in a French farmhouse. As beautiful as it was, Maz knew she would probably be doing a lot of Uber-eats.
She walked on through the bedrooms, poking her head in briefly. The owner had exquisite taste. Maz decided on the one with the French doors to the garden, which happened to be the guest room. She felt more comfortable not inserting herself into the owner\u2019s sanctuary room. But there was one room that had been the deal breaker for Maz to agree to take on three weeks. The owner had sold it well.
A light-filled study with views over the city, floor to ceiling book shelves down one wall and an antique desk said to have belonged to Gertrude Stein. Maz ran her hand over the table top, lingering over every dent and scratch, hoping beyond hope that some essence of greatness would rub off. ","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"