Oh my goodness me. I apologise in advance but this is likely to be something of a garbled diatribe – a tsunami of an update after too long without one, proving, essentially, that I am writing this blog as personal therapy rather than anything else. Sorry Toby, my seventeen year-old friend. It will probably be boring for you – but as you are not reading it anyway, I think I’ll crack on regardless.
So where were we…. oh yes! Annihilating the sixties extension! Well, that is fait accompli. The room was emptied and destroyed. The windows have been stowed for future use (in my orangery, but that’s another story). The next job was the scariest of them all. The one that I feared above all else, and the one with the most potential for disaster: the last of the steel beams needed to be installed.
Now, steel beam are ugly blighters. They are born in a bleak yard where men never get clean, and machinery dominates the skyline. They’re unceremoniously deposited with a clang on our drive, and then we are left to work out how in the living bejesus we are supposed to pop them on top of the new block wall Big Seymour has just built to support them. You may recall that the first beam we had to install was kindly positioned by a nice chap and his crane one Saturday morning, to an audience of Little Seymours. But this time, that crane was conspicuous in its absence.
Instead, we had Jeanie. Jeanie is probably called Genie. She’s a special lifting device – a mini crane, I suppose. She’s slim and petite, with winders and pulleys and extendable legs. It was down to her to help us lift the biggest steel beam I have ever seen into place. I am afraid I doubted her – she creaked. She protested. She was a bit awkward, to be honest. But in the end, Jeanie came through, and together with Grandma and Grandad, Big Seymour and I lifted this leviathan of steel into its resting place with an enormous sigh of relief.
But the work had only just begun, and Big Seymour was only too aware that, with a week “off” ahead of him, he didn’t want to rest on his laurels. By four o’ clock that evening, there were joists attached to the steels. By tea time, you could see the shape of the roof. And so the week went on, with me watching as Big Seymour’s eyes darted and his brain whirred audibly, whilst he (almost) single-handedly assessed, measured and constructed the final part of our new roof structure. It was impressive stuff.
By Friday of last week, the flat roof was almost complete, with a parapet round the edge, giving us a real feel of what the finished product will look like, and boy! Is it exciting! On Saturday, the boarding went down, so we could actually walk out there, and just before the rain arrived, the whole area was covered with a plastic sheet.
Now, unfortunately, earlier that day, Boy Seymour, the chap who is seven going on forty-seven and thinks he can do exactly as he pleases, had bid for and won two pairs of boxing gloves in a charity auction. (Yes – the “Jumble Sale With Auction On The Side ” season has begun, but no, I didn’t think my small son was capable of understanding the bidding procedure and overriding a frantic Grandma E sitting beside him, ineffectively trying to curb his spending). For the grand total of £1.20, he had acquired this most exciting of lots, and brought it home to show his father.
Later that evening, high on bonfire smoke, a small amount of cider and a smattering of eighties pop, Big Seymour donned said boxing gloves, as did I, and we had a sparring match. After he had dealt me an unnecessary upper cut to the chin, I decided I would no longer simply stand there and cower – I boxed back. Big Seymour tried to float like a butterfly in an attempt to sting me again, but instead twisted his knee, and had to go to hospital.
On Sunday, we achieved nothing.
On Monday, Big Seymour stayed in bed all day.
On Tuesday, he limped back to work.
In the mean time, the Four Little Seymours have all been getting on with their lives. They are delighted that Jumble Sale Season is upon us, so much so that we couldn’t fit all of their purchases in one car, and had to dispatch some of it home with a neighbour. I keep finding unfamiliar crap dotted about the property and then I remember that jumble sales generate a delirious, hedonistic high at the time, but coming down afterwards can be particularly depressing, especially as we live on a building site and the Four Little Seymours are incredibly untidy.
But the end is in sight, I feel – at least, the end of the beginning. Because soon, we will be ordering The Great Glass Doors. The pinnacle of the new house’s design will be winging its way to us, sealing us in the dry with style and modernity. The arrival of The Great Glass Doors will herald the departure of all of our money, but hey! At least I will be able to see my garden from the kitchen. Of course, when I say “kitchen”, I mean a space that could potentially house an Aga, some shiny units and a granite worktop, but will have to go without for now.
But it’s ok. What we do have is a Hello Kitty chocolate making set, a Fifi and The Flowertots sandwich game, a knitted man and an elephant hoop-la, a pink doll’s buggy, a Dr Who screwdriver, a whale game, a My Little Pony cinema, some Shrinkies, a Beauty and the Beast briefcase, a plush jewellery box, a baby’s night-light, umpteen ladybird books, a nail art set, eleven soft toys, many clothes, a rucksack and a money tin. Oh, and two pairs of boxing gloves. So I can’t complain.
Can I?
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