Not Losing My Sh1T. I repeat, NOT.

Oh, Funny Little Bungalow! How I miss you. So near, yet so far! So grand, yet so bloody awful.
I am trying very hard not to wish this time away. There are numerous moments when I look at the Four Little Seymours, as they make up their own entertainment within the confines of The Shed, and I take a snap-shot with my eyes. So what if every bloody cushion is on the floor? What does it matter if all blankets are draped artistically around the ladder that serves as our staircase? Do I even mind that the outdoor broom is holding up my duvet, dripping sleet globs on the floor, as it acts as the mast for a ship, or the central pole for a tent? They’re making memories!
It doesn’t matter. But it does get on my tits.

The walls of The Shed, in places, have begun to seep. Strange pools of mystery liquid are collecting in odd places. I have hoovered and moved furniture around in an effort to stem the flow, but still, the back door likes to grow a daily culture of mould. This isn’t pleasant. And if I could harvest all of the water that collects on the windows over night, I could probably fill a barrel.
The heating system has a mind of its own.
The flies have returned.
And the washing machine has packed up.

The Four Little Seymours, as usual, are taking it all in their stride. God love ’em.
They are stoically accepting that there is NO ROOM for a christmas tree inside, and have finally stopped crying about it. I unearthed a box of decorations from the garage the other day, so that they could, at least, make some sort of tribute to the festive season. Number One, who is very particular and annoyingly arty farty, decided the whole shelf I had allocated was for her sole personal display, and shrieked like a banshee at anyone who dared come near. Meanwhile, the others gaily spread decorations around The Shed willy nilly, including home-made dough ones that had gone all pappy in storage.
Now, the pap is all over the carpet.
My favourite ornaments, plastic baby bootees (three pink, one blue) were admired by Mini Seymour so much that I now have to delve into the hoover bag and retrieve a part that fell off in the fun.
But, on balance, The Shed lends itself very nicely to Christmas. Some friends have enthused greatly about just how christmassy it could be, what with its wooden-ness and all. Apparently, I could have twinkling lights, a roaring fire, and a tree, yes, a tree, artfully decorated in the corner.
If I had a tree in The Shed, where, I ask these friends, would I then put the Tesco trays full of clothes (plus all the other crap)? From what would I dangle twinkling lights? And who, in their right mind, would have a fire in a wooden building?
No. Humbug, I say.
I must remain strong. Scrooge I aint, but practicality can sometimes contribute to sanity, and I really need to stay sane. This I will do, as long as there is occasional wine.

The Good News: last Sunday, Big Seymour screeded the floor in the Funny Little Bungalow’s kitchen area. This is now all one height! Boy Seymour watched on, dishing out advice from time to time, and instructing me in the art of mixing up gauges of screed according to instructions etched by his father on a nearby plank. His legs seized up a couple of times, but he battled on regardless – he does like to be involved.

As for the next phase, I think we will just have to see what happens. According to Big Seymour, insulation prices have gone up hugely – this is not helpful. With the budget dwindling by the day, and a sheet of Celotex costing fifty smackers, we may well have to think of other ways to keep warm. Maybe we could simply stick the Four Little Seymours’ crumpled artworks in the gaps between the noggins..? Shredded outgrown clothes? Or straw, perhaps? And hooray! There is a jumble Sale on Saturday! A jumble sale means more teddies. And more teddies, being fluffy, might just be the answer to our prayers. We could stick those in the walls, too. It would get the sodding things out of my way.

So, after a slightly less than calm few weeks involving a septic burn, an eye injury, random financial demands, school dilemmas, abortive dance lessons, mentalists and a birthday the wrong side of forty, I have surpassed myself by not quite yet losing any of my marbles. I did not go missing, as I muttered I might. I didn’t curl up under a bush and wait for the cold to take me. Neither did I resort to soft drugs. (Does wine on a Thursday count? No, no it doesn’t.) So in fact, all’s well. Such is life.

Now, back to the all-important task of sourcing cheap roller boots for the Four Little Seymours’ Christmas presents (- as I said, Scrooge, I aint). Ebay, here we come!

One day, my children, you shall have Bauers.