This is not my home.
THAT, down there, is my home.
This piece of eye-melting loveliness is my fantasy home. It is a place where children do not have dirty knees or shout at their mommy (who is, incidentally, as beautiful as the home). It is a place with no neighbours, no pesky little doggies who leave shitty footprints all over the pristine white floor. It is a place where the sun shines all day and there is no washing line because the washing does itself. There are no builders, for the fairies build the beautiful home whilst you sleep, without a sound. There are no skanky men poking their noses in your Skip asking for scrap metal, and there is no bird poo on your car.
We actually bought this place with our own money, too. We CHOSE to live here. We both need to ease off the caffeine a bit, I think.
We are mid-renovation. This is a Victorian property. Late 19th Century. Not uncommon in these parts – we live in an old Spa town with much history and some lovely British architecture. What has become apparent during the renovations, however, is that Victorians had Cowboy Builders too. Floors held up by fresh air, lintels being supported by the doors that they’re meant to be supporting (eh?) etc.etc.
I have given up dusting. I simply sit down at the PC each morning and carve a window through the foggy haze with my fingers, then start typing. It’s tricky when I get to the edges of the page, but hey, that’s what spell-check is for, right?
……and set about rebuilding it into a large, open-plan family kitchen area (aka Doggy Prison).
This will bring us one step closer to the vision we have for this place. Or at least one step closer to not murdering each other and burying the bones under the debris.
We have no kitchen. Some days I have cooked for my children on my knees in a microwave in our hallway. Microwave cookery is not my speciality, although it’s amazing what you can do with a jacket potato!
It is a tortuous journey of noise, dirt, cramped conditions and stress. Cups of tea, endless men in and out of the house, ruined carpets, ruined walls, ruined doors and of course, jacket potatoes. Worst of all, having to take one’s washing for a walk in order to peg it out on a washing line.
There is little doubt that we will all remember this period of our family life. As house moves go, this has been a doozy. Life is, on the other hand, a series of recollections, and time makes them fonder. This little adventure is being tracked in chronological order on my lifeline at SaveEveryStep alongside the rest of my lifelong journey. The homes in which we live represent special times, people and places, and deserve to be commemorated as part of our life stories.
I suspect that this home holds not only much historic adventure (more on that if I ever get time or help to delve into its past) but much adventure yet to come. Whilst it is in our custody, my marvellous family will make our own memories and capture our stories with pride.
Find us on Facebook and give us a ‘like’!