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! 

Deck the halls with new electrics

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!

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. 

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...

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.

Our cruise ship