Splinter Camp

When moving out, whether it is to a bigger house or a smaller house or even a shed, it is only natural that things get thrown away – the dusty old bits of tat that have slunk around in corners for ages unnoticed, the tatty clothes that have been put up with for far too long. And the appliances that gave up the ghost because they couldn’t face what was in store. Like the kettle.
I threw it away. It went in the bin – the big bin. The OUTSIDE bin. I said my usual thank you to it for its service (don’t ask), apologised to the God of Landfill, and chucked it in.
I will never forget the sight that greeted me as I looked outside a day later to see Boy Seymour hurtling wonkily across the lawn with an electric cord swinging between his legs and the discarded kettle hugged tight to his chest.
He’d pilfered it.
The wheelie bin lay upturned on the concrete where he had left it – he’s not tall enough to get anything out of it without upending it completely. He’d grabbed his quarry, and made a mad dash with the broken kettle. He clearly had plans for it.

I was not too perturbed. I guessed where he was heading. He has a tree house in a lovely bulbous conifer, where he currently keeps a Bob the Builder workbench about five branches up. As there is no electric socket in the conifer, I wasn’t worried he would actually plug the kettle in. But what on Earth did he want it for?

It was a few days before I ventured to the tree house to investigate. There, I discovered the kettle nestling within the foliage up the tree, along with a roller blind Big Seymour had discarded, and several missing branches. It turns out Boy Seymour has been doing some refurbishment of his own.
The conifer has so far survived his attentions – from the front, at least, it still looks rather neat. But when you look closely, you’ll see some significant damage to the tree’s structure. I’m not sure it can take much more.
But it’s hardly surprising, really. Given that Boy Seymour has seen his father annihilate the Funny Little Bungalow in recent days, why on Earth should a few branches matter? He’s following in the family footsteps, and building his own splinter camp for when his sisters get too much for him.

Yes, the Funny Little Bungalow is well and truly beyond the point of no return. There are no ceilings left (except in New Baghdad). There are no light fittings. There is no internet! And the posh new gate system seems to have gone inexplicably wrong.
We knew this was coming, but the reality is that now, there really is no way out of this mess other than a very expensive renovation we can’t afford. What were we thinking..?
In a way, it’s a relief. Up until now, I suppose there was always the possibility that we might just downscale the whole project, and simplify things. But it’s full steam ahead with Plan A and nothing less. We shall carry on with our favoured strategy of winging it, and hope for the best!
I did point out to Big Seymour yesterday that, if he ran off and left me right about now, I’d be up the proverbial creek without so much as a plank of wood with which to paddle myself out of this current mess. I’d be the proud owner of a dilapidated bungalow and a pile of old rafters.

So far, however, Big Seymour hasn’t thrown the towel in. In fact, he’s gearing up for the big Eighteen Days stint. Eighteen days to remove the roof. Eighteen days to put it back again…
In truth, this statistic does leave me rather worried. Is it possible? Has he allowed for rain? Will he bust a gut? Time will tell.
But, if all else fails, and the roof takes longer than planned, then we mustn’t stress. We have The Shed, which is far more bearable now we have got used to it. And there’s always the tree house. Who knows what else Boy Seymour might find to kit it out with over the next few weeks. We might have to be careful where we put the toilet, once it’s removed from the Funny Little Bungalow, or he’ll be wobbling off down the garden with that between his legs, too.