Resurrection..?

On Good Friday, the roof came off.
The Funny Little Bungalow was decapitated, and its entrails burned in a pyre.
And this is all because we love it soooo much.

Big Seymour set to work early on Good Friday, with the help of a couple of valiant friends, to strip the tiles off the ageing roof. The old tiles were passed down and stacked neatly on crates and in rows, whilst Big Seymour did his mountain goat impression up on the slopes.
Before too long, the roof was bare, and the wooden structure was ripped from its moorings and flung unceremoniously downwards, to be lugged the length of the garden and out of our lives.
By the end of Day 1, the Funny Little bungalow was roofless, and open to the elements. It was a very satisfying sight to behold.
That’s not to say it wasn’t a little bit scary. There’s something rather bizarre about locking the door of a house that has no roof at the end of the day. And the Star Wars frieze looked somewhat out of place under its backdrop of cumulonimbus.
I often wonder what the Four Little Seymours are making of all this destruction. They watch for a bit, and then they go off and play. Boy Seymour and Little Seymour Number Two were so unperturbed by the demolition of their home that they saw what was going on, then went off to busy themselves, making air fresheners for their cars (scooters), and giving them creative names like Good Smell Jelly, You Man and Dire Blast. Mini Seymour made a cake with Little Seymour Number One, and the day passed as normal really. But for the obvious.
When Big Seymour finally finished on Good Friday, I had a little wander round the Funny Little Bungalow. I took a few pictures, and marvelled at the space (and light) that’s in there. It’s strange, but the place feels different already. I found myself clutching on to the familiar elements of the house, whilst so much of it looked like an alien landscape. It reminds me of a time in our last bungalow – we knocked down a major wall. When our friend’s little daughter next came to visit, she bounded in, stopped in her tracks and said “Where is this room?”. I feel the same now.

During the last few days, I have developed a strong love for the 1930s fireplace that I haven’t really appreciated until now. I’ve always looked at it with mild fondness, but now it has become my mission to save it from the sledgehammer. The fireplace has become the obvious heart of the old home, and is the one thing I’d like to transplant. It will be something familiar to take on this crazy journey of ours.
It is an ongoing battle. Big Seymour says he doesn’t like it. (But what does he know?) And there’s huge support for his plot to oust it on the forums of social media. But I, too, have my supporters – those with an adventurous sense of style and the bravery to embrace the interior design quirks of the past.
I have yet to ask the Four Little Seymours what they think about the fireplace. I will do so tomorrow. It’ll be very interesting to hear their views…

Meanwhile, on Easter Saturday, two internal walls came down, plus all the rest of the ceiling joists, and the place now looks like a scene out of The Walking Dead. In fact, as I dragged decrepit, naily, woodwormy timbers down the garden to their doom, limping, sweating and grimacing under the pressure, I felt a little bit like someone who might be trying to survive an extreme cataclysmic (super)natural disaster, like, for example, a plague of zombies.
And the best part about it was, I made my friend do it with me. We fought the metaphorical zombies together.

Today, Jesus has risen from the dead! Hoorah!
And, slowly but surely, the Funny Little Bungalow has seen signs of its own re-birth. Padstones have appeared. Some brickwork has been repaired. There are a few new brick courses dotted about. It’s hard, but if you look closely, you can just see – through the rubble and dust, signs that we may, soon, be building up, rather than knocking down.
Hallelujah!
Three days down, fifteen to go. It’s really stressful at times. There is so much more to do. Desperation could set in, if our sense of humour abandons us. But the Four Little Seymours, Big Seymour and myself are all still hanging on in here. Our optimism is fuelled mainly by a now massive stash of chocolate, courtesy of the season, plus all the prosecco left over from my birthday party. And the promise of a new roof one day. Wouldn’t that be nice?

Happy Easter, everyone.