World Premiere

Tomorrow, the Funny Little Bungalow shall make its television debut. And, as excited as I am about the prospect, I am also acutely aware that this building is not going to be viewed in the way that we see it; to us it’s home. To others? Some kind of godawful nightmare.
When a nice chap who I shall refer to as Camera Sam arrived here last week, he seemed remarkably unphased by the surroundings. He came in, accepted a cup of coffee, and got to work. He had a schedule to keep, and was on a mission. He barely had time to notice the mouldy corners and the dripping roof, and was happy to focus on my disaster of a wardrobe.
That was the brief: to help me to sort through my clothes in an effort to streamline everything and make it trendier, more suited to me, and easier to manage.
Trinny, of course, didn’t come to my house. It was the day of the tube strikes, and we were due to meet her at the studios in London later, where a selection of my out-dated garments would be displayed in all their ripped and faded glory for Trinny to assess.
But it became increasingly obvious, once the Fashion Assistant and Camera Sam had arrived, that this was about more than just a bad wardrobe. This was an environment in which fashion is way down on the list of priorities, despite my whimsical notion that I shall one day pick a style, stick to it, and rock it. In the Funny Little Bungalow, my wardrobe resides in the far-flung bowels of the house where the heating is inefficient and the lighting barely works. And this arrangement is a hurdle for anyone who might have whimsical thoughts about how to dress. So in this case, whimsical remains hypothetical.
All the time this is the status-quo, the wardrobe-sorting that I have been meaning to do gets put to the back of the list, and I pull on whatever I can find in the mornings that will keep me warm.
But this is all about to change.
Camera Sam, being efficient, got his shots of me leading This Morning through my house. He filmed me rummaging in despair through my many shapeless floral dresses I am obviously so keen on. He stayed filming when I nearly fell off the wardrobe in my attempt to retrieve the plastic boxes that contain the “old stuff” with which I cannot bear to part, and nearly took the ceiling down in the process. He sat tight as the heavy boxes hurtled down towards him. He knew what he was doing.
But, as the morning went on, I could see Camera Sam relaxing a little as he realised we had enough time, and at that point, he snuck off with his equipment, to take some shots of the house…
Oh, Little Bungalow!
Up until now, I have been able to share your shame with select friends who know the score. Everyone is always welcome, but only the brave few visit twice. And when they do, I can almost hear their sighs of relief as they leave, knowing that they’re going back to a home that is ordered, warm and mould-free.
I accept this. I would feel the same.
But now, much to Big Seymour’s trepidation, the Bungalow is about to be aired.
How she will come across is unclear – editing is a mystery business. But I doubt kind shots would make good television.
And so, whilst the Four Little Seymours are safely tucked away at school, their home will be starring in its own very short disaster film, complete with dripping roof, rubble pit and plethora of condensation pooling on the window ledges.
And, however much of a buffoon I come across as tomorrow, at least we will have something nicely graphic to remind us of this stage in our lives, when we reminisce in the future.
Alternatively, the Four Little Seymours may be removed from our care.
Here’s hoping Camera Sam was kind…

P.S. If anyone knows how to include French accents on blog posts, please do get in touch!