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)
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