It is January.
The Funny Little Bungalow doesn’t look its best in January.
I think we have already established that.
There are piles of bricks on the rubble-covered driveway. There’s ancient, rickety scaffolding adorning the perimeter. Mould grows in abundance on the interior walls, and the cobwebs have started to knit themselves together in the corners of my ceilings, in a kind of silken, tumbleweed-esque fashion.
The rear patio is impassable. Great beams of steel loom, naked above the back (and only usable) door. Wet patches keep appearing on the old ornate rugs that we inherited with the bungalow, and I’m not sure if they originate from child-spillage, wee, or something that may be rising up from underneath.
Paint is peeling off the walls in places. The archaic phone cable has been chewed by an unidentified rodent. Or two. There are sandy splats decorating the front of the property, where the cement mixer projectile-vomited before it died. And the curtains – brittle with age and torn by swinging seymourinos, hang dejectedly from their rails, hinting at a past when they were hand-made with pride, and thus, cherished.
Until we arrived.
No, perhaps January was not the best month to invite a television crew round to my house, to film it in all its absent glory.
However, I did. And I don’t regret it.
You see, I am an archivist. I keep stuff, record things and remember them. I take photographs and write diaries. My shelves are crammed with interesting snippets and notes from days long ago. So this actual, contemporary footage of my home (set to Bruno Mars’ 24K Magic, FFS!), is actually rather a fabulous thing to own.
The clip was brief, but it did the job, and is now part of the Funny Little Bungalow’s history.
What we don’t see on the telly are the newly-electrified gates that are no longer terrifying, after a few months of tweaking and a few near misses with the The Shiny Van. You can’t see the fabulous footings that are all dug, filled-in and ready to build on. No attention is paid to the clever new wiring system that is in place, and all the other things that have gone on out of sight, and are now neatly invisible.
But they’re there.
The next, more visible chapter is yet to come.
Big Seymour took a pen to the calendar the other day – a significant move as it happens rarely. He started counting days out loud, and working things out. After scribbling a little bit on the (my) calendar, he announced that we would be moving out of the house on the 9th of April, and emigrating to The Shed.
This has been on the cards for a while, and is no surprise. It is part of The Plan.
It will mean that the roof is coming off, representing a huge step forward in proceedings. The Four Little Seymours will be a step closer to having their own bedrooms, and I will be a step closer to having a reason to visit Ikea.
I can’t pretend I am not a little nervous about shed-living. Little Seymour Number One is taller than I thought, and cramming her, plus three others up on the mezzanine floor of The Shed may lead to endless arguments about feet in faces and elbows in ribs. Satan, The Cockerel from Hell sleeps (and wakes) right next door. And how on Earth will we get wifi down there? I am refusing to dwell on such things for long. Needs must.
Rightly, there has been something of a hiatus on the build in recent weeks. Christmas happened. The weather is bad, and the days are short. Big Seymour has not rested on his laurels – oh no! He has been keeping the Boredom Monster away by trying to resurrect a faulty hot tub, and renovating a dilapidated, vintage Morris truck. And keeping down his day job, of course.
I swear that man has a useful form of ADHD.
But even he is now starting to show signs of being daunted by the immense task of creating our new home. He has even talked about getting some help. This is significant.
Needless to say, exciting yet tricky times lie ahead. The Four Little Seymours are stoic, and despite our rickety house, they seem very happy to live here. It’s amazing how much joy a strategically-placed hot water bottle can bring to a child with a freezing bedroom at bedtime. And who doesn’t love a house with a graffiti wall in the kitchen?
Last night, Big Seymour came home and before saying hello, he pointed out the cobwebs on the kitchen ceiling.
I resisted anger. It was, after all, merely an observation.
But, Big Seymour, if you are reading this, I’d like to draw your attention to the FIRST TWO PARAGRAPHS of this story, which are especially for you. Please note, we do not live in a palace. The ceilings won’t be there for long. So, why would I chose to uproot and evict our spider friends two months early? I am not that cruel. Lord knows, they’ll suffer when the roof comes off.
One day, I will be house proud again. I shall notice cobwebs, and dusty skirting boards will bother me. I’ll wince when grubby hands make contact with Farrow and Ball. I’ll have a shower cubicle to polish.
But for now, a quick hoover around, a clean toilet bowl and keeping on top of the laundry will do me just fine.
And that, I have to say, is rather liberating!
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