Shirley Valentine Seymour

I asked the Four Little Seymours about the fate of the contentious fireplace.
They know better than to disagree with Mummy when she is in charge of the distribution of Easter eggs. So I am hopeful that I may have won this little battle…
But there are plenty more battles to be had.
It’s funny how, as soon as walls start to go up and future rooms begin to take shape, the mind’s eye is suddenly able to see things more clearly. There have been lots of discussions about en-suites, and whether we should add one to Boy Seymour’s embryonic bedroom.
Of course we shouldn’t, say I. Firstly, an en-suite is a privilege, and he’s being something of a sh!tb*g on and off at the moment, God bless him. And secondly, he has three sisters who will hate his guts if he has lording rights over his very own tiled cubicle. And besides, I have heard that an en-suite will be wasted on him when he turns thirteen, and it may take that long until any bathrooms are actually built.
But Big Seymour, for some reason, thinks it might be fitting to provide his one and only son not only with his own exclusive princely facilities, but also a door linking his room to ours. WTF? I am bemused by this.
Is it not enough that he will have a sky light? How long will we be able to keep him in the dark about the exciting fact that his room leads directly onto the roof? Only today, I found him climbing the scaffold tower.

All of this talk about en-suites and bath positioning must mean that we are seeing progress, and indeed we are. Big Seymour has been working his socks off to get the frame up, hence we can now picture our future more clearly. The rain has mercifully stayed away, facilitating work on the new upstairs floor. But the old, derelict original ground zero is still sadder than ever.
One bonus of us not as yet having any kind of working oven in The Shed has been that I have had to venture up to my dear old kitchen to “cook”. The other night, whilst waiting for pizza and warming my bum against the electric stove, I found myself talking to my old house, very much like Shirley Valentine, only without the Greek lover.
This is how our conversation went:
Me: “Hello, House, I miss you.”
FLB: “Hello, Rebecca. I miss you, too. But I am finding it hard to forgive you all for maiming me in this way. I feel violated.”
Me: “Oh, House, we are so very sorry to do this to you. But did you know? Your old joists were crumbling and riddled with woodworm!”
FLB: “That’s as may be, Rebecca, but they were MY joists. Woodworm or not.”
Me: “But House! I am keeping the fireplace!”
FLB: “Well, alright. I forgive you. That fireplace is my beating heart. At least you’re not bastardising me completely.”
Me: “We wouldn’t do that, House. All the work we are doing is to preserve you for another ninety years. As long as Trump and Kim Jong Un don’t have too big a falling out.”
FLB:”Well, Rebecca, try not to worry. I survived the last nuclear crisis, and that was so long ago now that you tell me my aged joists needed replacing.”
Me: “Hmmm, OK, House. I’ll try… Anyway, the pizzas are ready. I’ll see you tomorrow. And House..?”
FLB: “Yes, Rebecca?”
Me: ” I do love you.”

The Funny Little Bungalow may or may not have talked back to me. I can’t be certain. I have spent the last fortnight not really knowing what day of the week it is, and I’m sure I am going a little bit mad. Big Seymour has spent the same period of time either on the roof or up a ladder, and the pressure’s started to take its toll. He had a stressful moment one evening, when he just couldn’t get his angles for the roof pitch right. I stood by and thought about making helpful suggestions, and then remembered I was way out of my depth. All I could do was suggest Big Seymour telephoned The Architect, and lo! The tricky moment passed, and Big Seymour was up and running again the next morning.
But a break was in order, and luckily, my BFF had a birthday bash in the Big Smoke on Saturday, and we were going, roof or no roof. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect – because nothing less would have got Big Seymour off the scaffolding mid-build. He was told to stop at midday, and, by and large, he did! The Four Little Seymours were distributed, and we set off to swap roofing for dancing, and we even found time to watch something inane on the hotel television before the festivities began. It was a well-needed rest, courtesy of the BFF and her husband, Mr BFF. We love you guys!

By half past ten the next morning, we were home, and fitting a flitch beam – the glamour gone but not forgotten. We had a reminder that life is very much going on beyond the perimeter of the Funny Little Bungalow, and a taste of days to come, when hopefully, leisure time will be more abundant.
As long as Mr Kim and Mr Trump don’t bugger it up for everyone.
In which case, we may not be the only ones without a roof.