The kitchen floor has been a sticking point. When one has to choose a suitable ground covering to be the icing on the cake of a project that you have been pouring sweat and pennies into for the last four years, trust me – it matters.
I walked into Topps Tiles yesterday (for what seemed like the fiftieth time this month) and sighed. I was resigned. This was the day. The tiles were to be chosen. No messing about.
The nice chap behind the counter (Lewis, I believe) and I agreed that tile-choosing is a tricky business, but we also concluded that it is very much a first world problem. Surely, therefore, Topps Tiles should be a stress-free zone. A little bit like Dr Seuss’ Solla Sollew, where they never have troubles… at least, very few.
Indeed, tile choosing is exciting. It means that we are at THAT stage! But is also damn hard to get it right when getting it wrong might mean that we are wasting money we don’t really have… and whoop, there it is! The stressy bit. The problem. The trouble.
Money.
But the deed needs to be done. Big Seymour has finished laying the under floor heating pipes. He has also poured the (incredibly stinky) magic self-levelling compound into the gaps. With the help of Grandma V, he worked out the labyrinth of pipes and followed a map and now we have a very pretty network of tubes adorning the future kitchen floor. But if we don’t get those pipes covered soon, well, there may well be a disaster of some sort involving a stilletto, or a Stanley knife, or a saw. If those pipe runs are breached… there will be swearing. And possibly murder.
A floor covering is now a must.
A few days ago, we had narrowed it down to a large, pale, putty-coloured slab. Nice and light – not too bland, unlike its beige counterpart that we had rejected. Not slippery or shiny. Inoffensive. Tasteful. Probably perfect.
But doubts crept in. Don’t forget, I live with Four Little Seymours. They break stuff. And I’m clumsy, too. What if I drop a jar of jam? Those plain-coloured tiles won’t be forgiving. Chips will show. And if I spill the lasagne? Blood-red grout isn’t a good look. Mud? OK, it’ll come off, but it’ll show up like a beacon until I get round to scrubbing it. No. We need a stress-free floor. Something rustic, but sleek. Light, but not likely to show up every filthy splodge. Warm – yet bright. Is there such a thing?
So, torn between putty and the perfect, elusive alternative, I said a very stupid thing. I bravely told Big Seymour to… “surprise me”.
Off he went to Topps. Would it be plain putty? Or would he go for a curve ball, and choose something completely different?
He came home tile-less. But what he actually did was research. He decided that, in addition to all the above criteria, any tile we choose will have to be large. Small tiles are no good, apparently. Which narrowed it down even further.
And so, on our joint Topps mission yesterday, we were determined to seal the deal.
We failed. We did not order our tiles. But not because we haven’t made a decision – it is simply because our tile of choice needs to be ordered in. Typical. But we are inching closer.
It transpires, however, that Big Seymour has made a grave error. He has been unaware, to date, of the Topps Tiles reward scheme. The amount of money we have already spent in that shop over the last couple of months would have added up to a nice little discount – if only the wally had signed up to it. The kitchen floor problem would have been an even nicer one to have if we’d had a chunk of free money to go towards it.
Nump. Ty.
So, I will leave you in the knowledge that our kitchen floor is indeed on the horizon. It’s out there somewhere, over the rainbow, soon to make an appearance.
Unless the tiles we have agonized over choosing now become unavailable. In which case, I think I will give up, and just go for lino.
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