New Year is a time for fresh beginnings and embarking on new projects. It is also a limbo time of year when the Christmas fairy lights remain up, desperately sparkling for a few more days , the tree swoons in the corner of the living room, gaily decked at a jaunty angle, and the return to work blues begin to set in. Our usual festive fairy lights are added to by the occasional zap and pop of exploding electrics as Alex embarks upon the first fix of the extension. The air is a shade of electric blue as I question the wisdom of upside down plugsockets and abstract wiring. (Do we really have to have the oven in the middle of the dining room?)
Sporting a new, spiky hairstyle akin to Nigel Kennedy as a result of one too many brushes with lively cabling, Alex's temper and roots are frazzled. A festive Venetian break went some way towards repairing strained relations and split ends. However, a few carafes of vino later and our own weight in Christmas dinners, we have returned resplendent to the project at hand. Gale force winds and biblical downpours have lent an air of the apocalypse (or is it apoplectic?) to the project, as my Dad and Alex strive to find new and inventive ways to hang off the roof. New neighbours have arrived and the usual initial greetings of 'do you need any sugar?' have been replaced with awkward apologies of 'err incase you happen to find a hammer in your back garden, it's ours....hi, I'm Jade, welcome to Lavenham Close!'
I, meanwhile, am designing the kitchen. My someone tenuous grasp of basic mathematical principles means that measuring up and calculations have a creative air. This is enhanced by Alex's ability to lose the tape measure at the most inconvenient of moments. Thus, I am often to be found striding across the kitchen in size 11 boots to try and gauge footage. I find the whole conversion process alarming at the best of times and may consequently be guilty of ordering dolls house furniture or chairs that the Angel of the North would find comfortable. Frantic emails to my maths teacher are in the pipeline and revision of the theories of circle measurement (something to do with Pie, Arse, Square?) . Nevertheless, although not able, I am willing, and have chosen my tiles/wallpaper/pictures and vases already. One must get ones priorities straight.
January looms and with it, the promise of snow and the strain of a full time position at work. 'Zzzap! Crackle.......Oh bl*%$y hell!' From the sounds of things, Alex has mistaken a plug socket for a light switch again. On second thoughts, maybe I will be better off, if not safer, back at work!
Tuesday 31 December 2013
Monday 21 October 2013
Hitting The Roof
Dear reader I explain my absence as a result of tackling the project head on in a
frantic and soggy attempt to get the build sealed before the winter arrives. I
can report that this has not quite happened. The walls are now erected and the
roof taking shape. However, the weather has turned for the worse and I find
myself paddling to and from the garage in a self built canoe. (The blue peter
episode with the old washing basket?)
Amidst the mud ,the waves and the
confusion, I begin to think we should have built on stilts in preparation for
the big flood. We have stayed true to biblical accounts insofar as the animals are
indeed arriving two by two (spiders, moths, pond skaters and fools tottering
atop rickety ladders). We have emerged sniffling and resplendent after plagues
and blights (manflu and sickness bugs) and have become dab hands at the
water/wine phenomenon (it’s raining- pub?).
As beams swell, beer bottles empty
and tempers fray, our initial Christmas deadline seems impossibly
optimistic. However, I comfort myself
with looking through photos of the project so far and realise how far we have
come. Alex’s cries of ‘pass me the
noggin and sand off the snots’ no longer leave me searching vainly for
dismembered and unfortunate mannequins and begin to make sense. I am now an accomplished carpenter….of sorts ,
a ladder gymnast capable of contorting myself into all sorts of precarious
positions without plummeting onto concrete. Alex meanwhile is skilled on the
beam and I am considering signing us up for the next Britain’s Got Talent as the
Kitchen Contortionists.
Rain lashes against the study window as I write this
and a duck bobs past on Lake Lavenham. A festive finale may well turn out to be
an unrealistic (drain)pipe dream. However, we have generated more than enough
sawdust to host a plausible nativity scene. Clever use of tarpaulin may aid in
the parting of the red(sand) sea currently flowing past the back door and with
the aid of my laundry basket boat I can wash my socks by night in the garage.
Wednesday 11 September 2013
Mortar Life Than Building
Reader forgive my (in)conspicuous absence. This has been due
to a new plan of attack involving getting home from work and building, building,
building, until it gets too dark to see. The latter is usually gauged at the point
at which shoes/neighbours’ cats/Jade’s cakes, become mistaken for concrete
blocks and are subsequently mortared into place.
We are at the
not-quite-halfway-up-the-wall stage. I am dreaming in mortar and drowning in
blocks. The haphazard weather conditions means that this can be done in a range
of attire, from the sullen teenager-in-hoodie-and-ripped-jeans effect, to the
ancient hotpant and steel toecaps combination (and that’s just Alex!). The pair
of us have been getting on (in)famously, and have replaced everyday domestic
bickering with bitterly fought sparring duels about consistency of mortar.
Ours
is a passionate relationship, in which sweet nothings are substituted by peals
of ‘I’m going to throttle you with the pointing trowel if you knock that brick’
and ‘knock your block off’ can have a range of three dimensional,15kg,
rectangular meanings. Tempers and wall insulation frayed, we soldier on, listening to Die Walkure and other strident classicals in order to keep our spirit(levels) up.
Nevertheless, there is a simplistic therapy derived from pointing bricks and breaking blocks. Particularly after a day spent taming feral teens and doing-whatever-it-is-an-engineer-does when they aren't changing lightbulbs. Evenings usually culminate in a cupboard dinner in-front of the chimnea at the bottom of the garden and a glass (or 3) of wine. Sat in front of the flames, rainsoaked hoodies steaming, it feels like there is a light at the end of the tunnel...or it may just be the headlights of an oncoming Wickes lorry...
Monday 19 August 2013
Another Brick In The Wall
After another hard day in the garden, I struggle up the staircase into the study to find Alex at the computer. "What are you looking for?" I ask.
"Hardcore" he calls.
Building is that surreal world in which such a response is met with a congratulatory nod and suggestion that he "looks for something cheap", rather than the resounding slap and flounce which it would illicit in any other context.
Alex and I have begun the bricklaying. We have nailed this process down to a honed and efficient model of productivity. I will outline this here:
Alex mixes the mortar. This consists of creating billowing clouds of cement and sand which sail over the fence and instantaneously coat all neighbours' washing within a .5 mile radius. This is best done on a day when they are washing white clothes. Any mixture left after this process is poured into a bucket and mixed with a drill. However, it would appear that Alex has discovered a more effective way of mixing which entails the bucket staying put and him twirling round and round it making buzzing noises. The ensuing mixture can have a range of textures ranging from water to marble via superglue. I did suggest, tentatively, a week ago that there might be a set formula for getting it right. However, this was shunned and I was exiled from the garden covered in dust.
My role in all this is to then lay the bricks. I happily volunteered for this,scoffing "How hard can it be to stick bricks together?....I know my lego!" This was before I was informed that a spirit level and several tonnes of patience would also be required. In actual fact, each brick must be painstakingly levelled, length, breadth, height with the brick next to it. When working with marble mixture, this can be a quick and pain-free process. Bob the Builder eat your heart out. However, when presented with superglue or water, the course of events goes thus: Set brick. Brick appears level. Make tiny adjustment. Brick upends. Jade flounces off to the bottom of the garden and accidentally kicks entire wall.
Consequently our progress has been slow. The air is filled with expletives and dust and many scuffed shins as I fall A over T over the wall. After 2 weeks of such proceedings we have now completed the layers of brick below the damp-course and the project is beginning to look more like an extension than a crisis. I leave you now to resume my duties. Mocking Alex as he whirls like a dervish and promptly falls into a bucket.
"Hardcore" he calls.
Building is that surreal world in which such a response is met with a congratulatory nod and suggestion that he "looks for something cheap", rather than the resounding slap and flounce which it would illicit in any other context.
Alex and I have begun the bricklaying. We have nailed this process down to a honed and efficient model of productivity. I will outline this here:
Alex mixes the mortar. This consists of creating billowing clouds of cement and sand which sail over the fence and instantaneously coat all neighbours' washing within a .5 mile radius. This is best done on a day when they are washing white clothes. Any mixture left after this process is poured into a bucket and mixed with a drill. However, it would appear that Alex has discovered a more effective way of mixing which entails the bucket staying put and him twirling round and round it making buzzing noises. The ensuing mixture can have a range of textures ranging from water to marble via superglue. I did suggest, tentatively, a week ago that there might be a set formula for getting it right. However, this was shunned and I was exiled from the garden covered in dust.
My role in all this is to then lay the bricks. I happily volunteered for this,scoffing "How hard can it be to stick bricks together?....I know my lego!" This was before I was informed that a spirit level and several tonnes of patience would also be required. In actual fact, each brick must be painstakingly levelled, length, breadth, height with the brick next to it. When working with marble mixture, this can be a quick and pain-free process. Bob the Builder eat your heart out. However, when presented with superglue or water, the course of events goes thus: Set brick. Brick appears level. Make tiny adjustment. Brick upends. Jade flounces off to the bottom of the garden and accidentally kicks entire wall.
Consequently our progress has been slow. The air is filled with expletives and dust and many scuffed shins as I fall A over T over the wall. After 2 weeks of such proceedings we have now completed the layers of brick below the damp-course and the project is beginning to look more like an extension than a crisis. I leave you now to resume my duties. Mocking Alex as he whirls like a dervish and promptly falls into a bucket.
Thursday 1 August 2013
Building Rome in a Day
We have just returned from a wonderful weeks respite aboard Thomson Majesty on a non-stop tour of Corfu, Sicily, Naples, Rome, Sorrento, Malta, Gozo and Pompeii. It was hot! Whilst Alex took architectural inspiration from The Colisseum, I sweated, melted and panted my way around one of the most impressive cities on Earth. Nevertheless, the week was a welcome break from the horrors of trench warfare in muddy Nuneaton.
We returned refreshed, inspired and peeling, ready to tackle the first course of bricks with energy and zest. However, it soon appeared that whilst we had been wilting in 38 degree Italian heat, England had sagged under several inches of torrential rainfall. This had returned our 3/4 filled trenches to an aqueous state and enthusiasm gave way to 'bugger it- let's just have a swimming pool' mentality. Grand aspirations for Warwickshire's first ampitheatre and Patheon dimmed, and the possibilities for Nuneaton's own Trevi Fountain seemed more likely.
From then on, we have been playing the waiting game. This is punctuated by an occasional frenzied dash into the garden to drop bricks into the water whenever there is a gap in the rain, a modern variation of the three coins in the fountain phenomenon. Meanwhile, my new chimnea smokes forbodingly at the bottom of the garden, heralding a new industrial age when Pimms under a parasol seems a far more tempting way of spending a summer evening than syphoning muddy trenchwater through a straw.
I leave you now to dash onto the driveway and lie prostrate in our aged trailer, as Alex attempts to measure it's length and breadth and work out whether we can transport Roman arches from Hinckley in it. Are we the only couple in England who are attempting a building project without actually owning a tape measure? I struggle to sit up in the trailer to answer my neighbour's query. Carpe Diem! I cry. (As I spot a fish swimming in our trenches)
We returned refreshed, inspired and peeling, ready to tackle the first course of bricks with energy and zest. However, it soon appeared that whilst we had been wilting in 38 degree Italian heat, England had sagged under several inches of torrential rainfall. This had returned our 3/4 filled trenches to an aqueous state and enthusiasm gave way to 'bugger it- let's just have a swimming pool' mentality. Grand aspirations for Warwickshire's first ampitheatre and Patheon dimmed, and the possibilities for Nuneaton's own Trevi Fountain seemed more likely.
From then on, we have been playing the waiting game. This is punctuated by an occasional frenzied dash into the garden to drop bricks into the water whenever there is a gap in the rain, a modern variation of the three coins in the fountain phenomenon. Meanwhile, my new chimnea smokes forbodingly at the bottom of the garden, heralding a new industrial age when Pimms under a parasol seems a far more tempting way of spending a summer evening than syphoning muddy trenchwater through a straw.
I leave you now to dash onto the driveway and lie prostrate in our aged trailer, as Alex attempts to measure it's length and breadth and work out whether we can transport Roman arches from Hinckley in it. Are we the only couple in England who are attempting a building project without actually owning a tape measure? I struggle to sit up in the trailer to answer my neighbour's query. Carpe Diem! I cry. (As I spot a fish swimming in our trenches)
Monday 15 July 2013
Hop(e), Skip and a Jump(lead)
Dear Reader, you may have noticed my suspicious absence over the last week. I am blaming this on being unable to reach my house over the mountains of soil, dirt and clay surrounding our moat. 10 cubic yards of cement it took to fill the trenches. Having, admittedly only an elementary grasp of mathematical principles, we calculated that this would mean that 10 cubic yards of earth would therefore have been excavated, and consequently budgeted for 'A Helluva Big Skip'.
As with most things with this project, the seemingly straightforward tasks appear blighted with unforeseen issues ranging from the frustrating to the downright bizarre. Shoveling excavated soil was to become one of these. Weeks of heavy rainfall, combined with clay soil and the odd clump of concrete/ancient rock carving/radioactive waste, had formed into a mutant stew akin to superglue and dog poo (did you not see that Blue Peter episode?). Far from sliding effortlessly onto shovel, this stuck. To everything. We were forced to use the garden fork to bodge at bits of it and then cleave this from the tines with bare and sticky mits. This became less and less amusing as the days wore on, battling through outbursts of rain interspersed with sunshine so hot our skulls ached.
After days of such larks, Skip 1 was full. No amount of jumping/falling over would compress it any more. The skip hire company (which shall remain nameless due to impending lawsuit) displayed a tentative grasp of rudimentary logic and instead of collecting the full skip and replacing it with another, empty one, refused to answer their phone for several days. Work stopped. Tempers frayed. Dog poo glue failed as a entrepreneurial concept and the moat remained. On day 4 I returned home to find that the skip hire company had visited. However, the sight that presented itself as I turned into the cul-de-sac, weaving past puzzled onlookers and a guy who looked suspiciously like Damien Hirst, was nothing short of modern art. They had indeed fulfilled their promise to bring another empty skip. This they had placed on top of the full skip, leaving a rickety and mountainous structure on our driveway.
Several expletive-dappled conversations to the firm ensued and by the Thursday, we were (un)happily tackling the clay mountain once more. I am pleased to report that 2 skips later I am able to get down to my garden again (with the aid of a combat swing and a ladder). I am currently sitting in the sunshine rewriting a maths textbook to incorporate trench-logic and listing 'An Incredible New Adhesive- sticks like s**t!' on eBay.
As with most things with this project, the seemingly straightforward tasks appear blighted with unforeseen issues ranging from the frustrating to the downright bizarre. Shoveling excavated soil was to become one of these. Weeks of heavy rainfall, combined with clay soil and the odd clump of concrete/ancient rock carving/radioactive waste, had formed into a mutant stew akin to superglue and dog poo (did you not see that Blue Peter episode?). Far from sliding effortlessly onto shovel, this stuck. To everything. We were forced to use the garden fork to bodge at bits of it and then cleave this from the tines with bare and sticky mits. This became less and less amusing as the days wore on, battling through outbursts of rain interspersed with sunshine so hot our skulls ached.
After days of such larks, Skip 1 was full. No amount of jumping/falling over would compress it any more. The skip hire company (which shall remain nameless due to impending lawsuit) displayed a tentative grasp of rudimentary logic and instead of collecting the full skip and replacing it with another, empty one, refused to answer their phone for several days. Work stopped. Tempers frayed. Dog poo glue failed as a entrepreneurial concept and the moat remained. On day 4 I returned home to find that the skip hire company had visited. However, the sight that presented itself as I turned into the cul-de-sac, weaving past puzzled onlookers and a guy who looked suspiciously like Damien Hirst, was nothing short of modern art. They had indeed fulfilled their promise to bring another empty skip. This they had placed on top of the full skip, leaving a rickety and mountainous structure on our driveway.
Several expletive-dappled conversations to the firm ensued and by the Thursday, we were (un)happily tackling the clay mountain once more. I am pleased to report that 2 skips later I am able to get down to my garden again (with the aid of a combat swing and a ladder). I am currently sitting in the sunshine rewriting a maths textbook to incorporate trench-logic and listing 'An Incredible New Adhesive- sticks like s**t!' on eBay.
Monday 1 July 2013
Sue the Builder and Phil the Wheelbarrow
Trenches dug and fought in, it was time to pour the concrete. Cue, three huge, noisy and slushy lorries liberally blocking all three routes to our house at 7am "Builders Time" (10:15ish).
I don't know if you've ever had to pour 10 cubic metres of concrete, but it is a far from tidy business. In the style of Nigella, I will recount the process:
First, take a large cement truck filled to the top with sand and cement mix. Add liberal amounts of blustery winds and generate instant sandstorm. Apply this fine mist to the recently and impeccably powerwashed drive of neighbour (Colin). Smile cringingly as said lorry reverses up drive, adding tire tracks to the newly generated beach.
Secondly, and much later, add a second truck complete with hose to attach to the first truck in order to pump the concrete through. Discover hose is too small and experiment messily and liberally with various gung ho methods. (Catching over-spray in shorts, buckets, neighbours' plant pots and eventually power wash car with it).
Finally, pump attached, lorry spewing forth, add four noisy builders and a dash of expletives to the entire affair. Discover hose is not only too b*@%dy small, but also too b*@%dy short aswell. Begin filling garage lavishly with concrete.
All things are now ready.
Unfortunately in the midst of all this chaos, our elderly neighbour fell ill (probably after watching what was being done to his vista) and the emergency services were called. The arrival of a paramedic car and an ambulance exacerbated the scene from ice road truckers and I watched on, cringing inside, as the ambulance was forced to mount the pavement and rock past the lorries at a rather alarming incline. I have since found out that fortunately, Fred is recovering well. I'm not sure I can say the same for the ambulance's suspension.
Trenches finally filled, and the garage too, the lorries and their noisy occupants left and Alex and I were able to contemplate the next few hours in dusty peace. As I surveyed the scene, trenches painstakingly dug and now full again, I felt a cold, sinking feeling...bugger, there goes another pair of wellies!
I don't know if you've ever had to pour 10 cubic metres of concrete, but it is a far from tidy business. In the style of Nigella, I will recount the process:
First, take a large cement truck filled to the top with sand and cement mix. Add liberal amounts of blustery winds and generate instant sandstorm. Apply this fine mist to the recently and impeccably powerwashed drive of neighbour (Colin). Smile cringingly as said lorry reverses up drive, adding tire tracks to the newly generated beach.
Secondly, and much later, add a second truck complete with hose to attach to the first truck in order to pump the concrete through. Discover hose is too small and experiment messily and liberally with various gung ho methods. (Catching over-spray in shorts, buckets, neighbours' plant pots and eventually power wash car with it).
Finally, pump attached, lorry spewing forth, add four noisy builders and a dash of expletives to the entire affair. Discover hose is not only too b*@%dy small, but also too b*@%dy short aswell. Begin filling garage lavishly with concrete.
All things are now ready.
Unfortunately in the midst of all this chaos, our elderly neighbour fell ill (probably after watching what was being done to his vista) and the emergency services were called. The arrival of a paramedic car and an ambulance exacerbated the scene from ice road truckers and I watched on, cringing inside, as the ambulance was forced to mount the pavement and rock past the lorries at a rather alarming incline. I have since found out that fortunately, Fred is recovering well. I'm not sure I can say the same for the ambulance's suspension.
Trenches finally filled, and the garage too, the lorries and their noisy occupants left and Alex and I were able to contemplate the next few hours in dusty peace. As I surveyed the scene, trenches painstakingly dug and now full again, I felt a cold, sinking feeling...bugger, there goes another pair of wellies!
Saturday 22 June 2013
Musings from the Trenches: Home Extension for Beginners and Lunatics.
We will begin at the middle, as is best with these things. Or rather, Phase 2 of The Big Dig. After many proddings from friends and family, I have decided to embark on a Blog journey/observation of the trials and tribulations of a young couple of chronic DIYers as we try to extend our house. If nothing else, it will serve as a useful piece of police evidence when we both murder each other with a muddy shovel in the weeks to come.
This is the story of Jade and Alex. The scene is the Trenches. Circa 2013. Protagonist: Jade, twenty something teacher, 5 foot 1, Leo. Antagonist: Alex, deranged villain and worst kind of textbook engineer. Minor characters: Neville and Mildred, pigeons; various bits of digging equipment and two sets of long-suffering parentals. There is also a manic terrier called Colin, who may crop up from time to time in the bottom of a bucket or swinging from a washing line.
Yesterday was a bleak day. After torrential rain flooded our foundation trenches, Alex and I found ourselves knee deep in sucking mud, howling abuse at each other over a clogged water pump. After being screamed at to "come hold this wire, quickly!", my frantic fumblings led to a massive trench wall collapse and I became even less popular. Freezing cold, covered in wet clay and starting to panic that I couldn't move my feet, I decided to respond in an appropriately adult way: 'Fine, fix it your bloody self then'. Strop, slosh, pull-at-stuck-boot, strop, stomp, splash, slide, stomp, stuck again. Boot flies off and I fall into another trench. As my students would say, FML.
Today has been slightly better. Torrential rain has eased off and in between light showers we are able to shift another couple of tonnes of earth as Neville and Mildred look on suspiciously. 1pm arrives and is heralded by the landline ringing out. Extricate self from muddy boots, smash 2 glasses as I shuffle into the kitchen which naturally coat the floor in instant, lethal fairydust. 'Hi Jade, it's Mom! We are in Leicester and are popping in to see you. We won't stay long but we thought we would bring Colin to see you!'. Next couple of hours pass in a whirlwind of muddied stilettos and surreal shouts of 'Colin! Stop eating that wet cement now!', 'Dad, Colin is weeing up the skip!'. The obligatory octagenarian neighbour called Colin looks across from where he is powerwashing his driveway with a less than indulgent expression as we haul the non-plussed dog, now in a fetching mud facepack, back into their 4x4. As we lean against the skip and survey the carnage only a Jack Russell teen is capable of creating, phone rings again. Alex's Dad: 'Oh hi! I just got out the bath, would you like me to come over and help for an hour?' Alex wipes the mud off his watch: 4pm. Calling it a day methinks.:)
This is the story of Jade and Alex. The scene is the Trenches. Circa 2013. Protagonist: Jade, twenty something teacher, 5 foot 1, Leo. Antagonist: Alex, deranged villain and worst kind of textbook engineer. Minor characters: Neville and Mildred, pigeons; various bits of digging equipment and two sets of long-suffering parentals. There is also a manic terrier called Colin, who may crop up from time to time in the bottom of a bucket or swinging from a washing line.
Yesterday was a bleak day. After torrential rain flooded our foundation trenches, Alex and I found ourselves knee deep in sucking mud, howling abuse at each other over a clogged water pump. After being screamed at to "come hold this wire, quickly!", my frantic fumblings led to a massive trench wall collapse and I became even less popular. Freezing cold, covered in wet clay and starting to panic that I couldn't move my feet, I decided to respond in an appropriately adult way: 'Fine, fix it your bloody self then'. Strop, slosh, pull-at-stuck-boot, strop, stomp, splash, slide, stomp, stuck again. Boot flies off and I fall into another trench. As my students would say, FML.
Today has been slightly better. Torrential rain has eased off and in between light showers we are able to shift another couple of tonnes of earth as Neville and Mildred look on suspiciously. 1pm arrives and is heralded by the landline ringing out. Extricate self from muddy boots, smash 2 glasses as I shuffle into the kitchen which naturally coat the floor in instant, lethal fairydust. 'Hi Jade, it's Mom! We are in Leicester and are popping in to see you. We won't stay long but we thought we would bring Colin to see you!'. Next couple of hours pass in a whirlwind of muddied stilettos and surreal shouts of 'Colin! Stop eating that wet cement now!', 'Dad, Colin is weeing up the skip!'. The obligatory octagenarian neighbour called Colin looks across from where he is powerwashing his driveway with a less than indulgent expression as we haul the non-plussed dog, now in a fetching mud facepack, back into their 4x4. As we lean against the skip and survey the carnage only a Jack Russell teen is capable of creating, phone rings again. Alex's Dad: 'Oh hi! I just got out the bath, would you like me to come over and help for an hour?' Alex wipes the mud off his watch: 4pm. Calling it a day methinks.:)
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