Good morrow from the new year! And here we are, out the other side of Excessmas, getting ready for The Final Push.
Ooooh, that sounds ominous.
And optimistic. And delusional. And rather finite, too.
There is a tentative plan brewing, that we might, just possibly be – dare I type it – back in The Funny Little Bungalow by Easter. And yes, Easter is a way off, but not that far off. Because Tesco has had Easter eggs on its shelves for about a week.
We now have a worktop in The Utilitarian Room. There are lights in the toilet. The underfloor heating has arrived (I have not seen Big Seymour more excited upon opening a box as he was when he peeped into one at his new manifold this morning), and there is plaster all over the kitchen ceiling.
By the end of tomorrow, the whole kitchen might be totally plastered…
This is, of course, great news. But for those that have visited us, or for those who have grasped a correct image of the state of things from my online musings, you’ll know that The Final Push is still a daunting prospect.
Aside from the last of the plastering, there is the flooring to do, and the underfloor heating to put in. There are kitchen units yet to buy and fit. Then there is the worktop to find. There are light fittings to choose and carpet to order, and let’s not forget the boot room to glaze, the rubble pile to be flattened and a patio to be installed. There’s painting and tiling, plus two more bathrooms to kit out. There’s the hidden North Wing to excavate, before we can even think about doing anything with that. Then, the whole house has to rendered, and Steptoe’s Yard must be decommissioned.
Daunting. Yes. But also, at the same time, slightly comforting. Because whilst we are all very much looking forward to living in our spacious new house and allowing Big Seymour his well-deserved break, it’ll mark the end of this crazy adventure. When we move into The Funny Little Bungalow, what will be my excuse for being scruffy, or late, or harassed..? There’s no better line than “I live in a shed” to justify my failings.
In much the same way that I took stock of the bungalow before we demolished it, in a “It won’t look like this again!” kind of way, I am now doing that with The Shed. This won’t last forever – our garden dwelling will soon be a thing of the past.
Surely, I can’t be sad about that…can I? Can I? I think, in a way, I can.
There must be a name for this condition… one moment caller… yep, I’ve just googled it! It’s called chronophobia – fear of the passage of time. I could also call it Chronic Nostalgia, or Tempus Fugititis.
It’s not hereditary though. The Four Little Seymours are not sufferers. When asked if they are looking forward to living in the house again, their answers were undeniably yes, and as follows:
“Because I get my own space where I can be tidy and I can be warm because I can put my radio, no, my radiator on and people can’t stop me, and I can make it all nice and cosy with my bit and bobs. ”
“I like my hidey holes and I am going to have loads of space and I will have a bunk bed instead of a sharing shelf and I can choose which bed to go in every night.
I’ll love the heat.”
“I‘m gonna have a radiator that can warm me up in case I am chilly at night and I’m so excited to put my things in my bedroom and it’s so great, and I will be in my house for next Christmas, so I’m looking forward to playing with my toys in there and I really want to, er, like, have a collection of L.O.L.s.”
The teenager’s response has just been texted to me, as she is out. And so, for your enjoyment, I shall simply insert a screen shot or two. Or four.
Enjoy.
Oops. I have created a monster.
(I’m ever so proud!)
0 Comments