Getting Plastered....

Forgive me reader, I have sinned; it has been several weeks since my last confession. I blame work commitments and the ever-elusive pursuit of happiness. Or at least, something with 4 walls and roof resembling thus. The build is now in the final stages. Plasterboard has been fitted, backs put out, walls have been plastered and painted. Our appliances have been delivered and we are now proud owners of a gorgeous range style cooker and a monstrosity of a fridge freezer, courtesy of Alex. Every surface of the kitchen glints and twinkles in the sunlight as spotlights are wired in and cabinets are placed carefully in their positions. My most recent accomplishment has been to tile the floor.

When I commit myself to something, I do it wholeheartedly and with wild abandon. Grouting is no exception. I find it is quicker to complete this task when not restrained to using the hands. This is my excuse for walking in, over and through the grout at every opportunity. This has largely been a success until my moves begin to resemble postmodern ballet. (Slipping Beauty anyone?) Hissy fits have ensued and a bleak moment reached when Alex had to carry me up the stairs, looking like the unfortunate loser of a mudwrestle, and dump me, bodily in the shower. This spectacle gained further hilarity when he caught my head on the staircase on the way up. I was thus doused, fully clothed, in cold water. Semi concussed and hurling abuse I reflected on the relative merits of wooden flooring over tiles.

Whilst I have been conducting myself thus, Alex has been preoccupied with sawing cabinets and side panels and generally making the kitchen look like a stable. A credible Easter egg hunt could take place in the sawdust carpet that is currently liberally strewn across the extension and a large portion of our house. This has affected Alex's hayfever and long suffering neighbours are being treated to drilling, sneezing and circular saw renditions. Alex likes to listen to music as he works. The latest preference has been for Jesus Christ Superstar in twelve part harmony (if you include the tile cutter). I did not see anything wrong with this until I noticed our new, and incidentally devout Christian, neighbours had been less enthusiastic upon encountering us on the driveway than normal. I was about to put this down to Alex's creative use of abusive language until I happened upon him wailing along to the favoured Musical one Sunday morning. Consequently, I have suggested that 'Jesus must, Jesus must, Jesus must DIE!' might not be the most pertinent of lyrics to belt out whilst we wait for a replacement window.

Life, and allergies, go on in Lavenham House and each day brings forth new challenges requiring physical, spiritual and alcoholic fortitude. A broken car and an exclusive diet of microwaveable monstrosities bring their own burdens and I look forward to the end with great anticipation. I hope that we will emerge victorious, intact and accomplished within the next month and ready for the next adventure. I know not whether this will involve more building, or perhaps repairing of existing bridges where neighbourly cameraderie is concerned. Any suggestions are welcome. I might invite them round for an Easter egg hunt.

Wall.Street.CRASH!!!

 I must admit these have been tense times. We are now in day 3 of mystery microwave meals and the trauma of having no kitchen. Our house has been turned into a winter wonderland, liberally bedecked with fine white brick dust.

 Power tools scream and grown men shriek as the walls are taken down into our new extension. This is make or break (the house) time. The back of the house is currently being propped up by what look like oversized railway screws and the upstairs study been turned into soup kitchen-meets-builder’s-mess-hall. Valentines dinner was served on reused takeaway tubs and the endless search for a microwave meal with that elusive quality- texture- continues in vain. Our relationship is being tested to the max, as is Alex’s life expectancy, after forgetting to close the lounge door yesterday before work commenced. We are thus playing a game of ‘guess the mystery piece of furniture’ under the brick snow.

 I am consoling myself, as I sit here in darkness and needing the obligatory wee with urgency only present when plumbing has been removed, with a search for our Rangemaster. Alex wants a big American fridge freezer and this is a sticking point. After pointing to the stainless steel lift doors at work yesterday in description of the fridge, and my long suffering colleague saying ‘ah yes, those horrible things!’, I am less than convinced. In partial recompense I am being allowed a range cooker.

I have to say I am finding it hard to see the silver lining at the moment. As I squint through the fog of drilling, I think for a moment that I have spotted the light at the end of the tunnel. Wrong again I fear. Alex has left the bloody door open again!