Writer’s Block and Other Problems

The Four Little Seymours have had a funny few weeks, really. If I’m honest, I think we may have reached a pivotal point in the renovation of the Funny Little Bungalow – the point at which we all feel a little bit like it might be easier to just give up on the whole thing. (This has been reflected in my slowness to update.)

Of course we won’t give up. It’s not an option, but the momentum with which Big Seymour kicked the whole thing off has gone, and I can see it in his eyes: he’s finally daunted.
This, of course, means that I am, too.

The money is starting to run out. Patience is beginning to ebb, and despite the fact that it is still only the start of June, I can see Big Seymour counting the number of weekends he has until November, by when I said I wanted to finish our extended “holiday” in The Shed.
This was a mistake. When people would ask, “So, how long do you think you’ll be out of the house for?”, I would tell them I didn’t know, there was no timescale. But then I would add that six months would be perfect, and if we could be out before the weather becomes cold, that would be ideal.
Poor Big Seymour is now feeling the pressure to achieve this over-optimistic goal, and as such, the fire has gone from his eyes, and terror has replaced it.

The Four Little Seymours are, naturally, unperturbed by the finances and general scale of the operation. They are keen to start choosing bedroom wall coverings, and just wish Dad would hurry up. The promise of their own bedroom each has been bandied about for a few years, and now that there’s been a move towards it, waiting is not easy. We have had a high incidence of pilfering and destruction of Other People’s Belongings recently, and the idea of having your own space to hide your treasures and keep them safe from siblings is just too desirable to allow for patience. There’s simply no space to keep stuff tucked away in The Shed.

Pilfering and destruction in turn lead to arguments, and the fear of stuff being pilfered starts arguments. I have never known so much aggravation over a glue stick before now. Or a bloomin’ fidget spinner. Or a minion soap, or indeed The Blue Scissors.
Anything, in fact, can trigger a row in a house – nay, shed, where you are expecting a seven year-old boy to rub shoulders, literally, with a nearly thirteen year-old, and a few others besides.
Thanks goodness it’s the summer, and we have a trampoline, so I can chuck them out to bounce it off.

As for me, I have been struggling to find my mojo. School letters have gone unreturned. Meetings have been double booked. Numerous things have become lost, and birthdays forgotten. The toilet is temperamental. There have been near-misses with scooters and roads, and boys and ladders. I’ve messed up sales on eBay and neglected my car. My blog isn’t a hit. One of my Christmas trees has died, and the guinea pigs have turned feral. I accidentally dropped Little Seymour Number One off at her play rehearsal two hours early. Uncle Len nearly got squashed by a runaway vehicle. I sort of crashed Big Seymour’s van a bit. The car failed its MOT and I still haven’t started the 2016 photo book.

All of these things have made me feel decidedly unproductive, highly incompetent and out of control.

But enough! Onwards and upwards, as they say. I shall count my blessings, and keep my chin up and heed all the other clichés in existence. I shall pull myself together, and get my head down. There’s a long way to go before we can live normally again.

And what is normal anyway? As I took my chicken poxy Mini Seymour home from school on Tuesday, I longed for a chest of drawers in a bedroom where I could pull out some freshly laundered jogging bottoms and a cosy sweatshirt for her to wear in her confinement. Then I remembered that all the clothing is stored in a Tesco’s tray in a corner of The Shed, and whilst it doesn’t have the same appeal as trotting to a beautifully neat, stylish bedroom and pulling out the desired garment from the correct drawer, Mini Seymour won’t care either way. Normal is different for everyone, and, in light of all the terrible, deliberate acts of evil that have happened across the country recently, normal can be taken away at any moment.

Three years ago, I spent the most stressful half term ever as we waited for phone calls regarding the sale of our old home, and the purchase of the Funny Little Bungalow. We wanted this place so badly. If I could have known that now, in 2017, we’d be in it (sort of), with planning permission and a new roof (almost), I’d have been overjoyed.

And here we are! To date, surviving, and muddling along just about fine. And with the exciting prospect of the General Election results to look forward to later, I can’t think of a better time to be alive and living on a building site with the Four Little Seymours. (As long as the NHS doesn’t become privatised and schools are fully funded. Both of those things would certainly help.)