I am dreaming of clean white walls, polished floorboards and crisp, pristine bed linen. Maybe some ambient lighting or a strategically placed cushion or two….
Instead I am trapped in the hell that is renovation.
Call me a twit (with an ‘i’ please), but when we purchased this old Victorian house, I had commended myself on my ability to see beyond the old-fashioned decor and visualise a stunning masterpiece of a house fit for the cover of Homes and Gardens at the very least. I seem to have conveniently by-passed in my mind the torture which one is required to endure before you can start selecting soft furnishings!
Picture the scene – there is scaffolding outside every window as we are having the entire roof replaced …….by the way, if you ever have your roof done, remember to buy a dressing gown as the roofers start very early in the morning ……..there is a massive pile of wood and rubble outside the front door which we have thrown out of the bedroom window……my husband is standing in the space which, until yesterday used to be two bedrooms with neatly papered walls and reasonable carpets. I cannot really see him for the following reasons:-
1. he is covered from head to foot in 150 year old black soot which came from the ceiling which he has just removed with a crowbar
2. there is a cloud of dust as thick as the November fog in a Sherlock Holmes movie
3. I am wearing a shower cap, ski goggles and a face mask because I am unable to enter this hell-hole without them, for fear of asphyxiation.
It is, consequently, very hard to imagine that this room will ever be in a suitable condition for the decorating fairy to visit.
On the positive side, I have run up and down the three flights of stairs SO many times, carrying heavy bags of rubble and wood, that I surely have to get thin?
There is a layer of dust across my keyboard as I type this. There is a layer of dust across everything, everywhere in fact.
The carpets are a write-off, but there was no way to avoid it. The attempts to double-seal ourselves into the bedroom with polythene sheeting and duct tape were valiant, but we had to come out some time – after two or three days the kids would have eventually looked up from the PS3 and noticed we were MIA, surely?
The most amusing part of this whole endeavour was my husband’s approach the labour-division. “I will do all the hard knocking down work, dear. You go and iron something.” (I made that last bit up for dramatic effect, of course). Some hours later, he emerged whistling ‘ChimChimenee-ChimChimCheree’ from the debris which was, in places, literally up to his knees, and declared, “Over to you now then love!”
I am still sweeping and my Dyson has Died.
www.saveeverystep.com – life’s a journey!