Hello to all the nice new people who are joining this blog fresh on the heels of “shithouse caravan-gate”. For those interested, the caravan is yet unsold (bids up to £53! Stop the clocks!). Enjoyably, we were also advised of an official request to move it off the premises by the Estates Manager for Lord Compton. It being a historic estate village and all, what ‘off the premises’ actually means is ‘out of the entire village’, so after some farcical driving/skiving from the husband, it is currently languishing in a far more fitting spot awaiting…well, whatever the new buyer chooses to use it for.
BUT, onwards and upwards! As there might be a few new readers, I though I could re-introduce myself here, (so you can leave, quietly, if you so choose), as my bio section is a little bit out of date, if not wilfully misleading…
According to the Daily Star, I am a 44 year old, frustrated, angry, caravan-hater, but don’t believe everything you read. I am not a DAY over 4. Having been raised by wolves, I found my way into blogging after leaving a stable job in the ‘creative’ industries (not a euphemism) and needing an outlet for my almost constant inner sweary monologue. I actually do have a proper job too. I go there sometimes. Other times I swan about the county having “coffee” and “chatting”, according to my husband, occasionally interspersed with “parenting” when the wifi is down.
Now that the children are back at school, he’s not far off the mark though, the sum total of what I have achieved today being 1. Going to Lidl, and 2. Thinking about cheese. (Not necessarily in that order). I have found some time to wander around our house aimlessly too though, and in the interests of full public disclosure, I think the time has come to shed some light on How We Live.
How We Live
I live in a never-ending building project, optimistically called an ‘extension’. What started out as a tiny 300 year old little cottage is now, after three years of building work….a partly wrecked (albeit bigger) 300 year old cottage with feature breeze blocks for fun, quite a lot of water damaged carpet, and a few quirks along the way that I feel less than stoic wives simply would not have tolerated.
There was the time that for about a month, the curtained doorway which used to lead into our conservatory just opened onto…outdoors. No door. Just curtains. Big, long, billowy green ones. That got a bit chilly after a while.
Then, the time I came home from a lovely week away with the children to find that not only had my husband triumphantly KNOCKED THROUGH into the ‘new’ bit of the kitchen, but that he had done so without moving/protecting a SINGLE ITEM in said kitchen – tablecloth still on, vase of flowers still there, extremely expensive handbag – all under several inches of brick dust. After proclaiming he had probably ‘bitten off more than he could chew’, he then left for work, leaving me to move the SIXTY trugs full of wrecked house out to the skip. Oh no, wait. We didn’t have a skip. We had a pile of wrecked house on the driveway. Which then had to be moved, again, into the skip.
The latest development in our ridiculous living arrangements is in the bedroom, which we are splitting to form another room. This means moving the entrance, and building a new wall to seal off the original doorway. So husband has built the dividing wall, whilst I was away. (Great!!)
Unfortunately, what he has NOT done is create the new entrance.
Upon my return this produced a baffling Harry Potter-ish ‘room of requirements’ type of scenario, whereby I stared hard at a seemingly solid, blank wall for some time, searching for a way to get into my own bedroom. As it turns out, there is a teeny, tiny gap left at the end of the new wall, which myself and my 6’6″ husband now have to contort ourselves though just to go for a midnight wee. If I attempt to carry anything at all, entry/exit is not possible.
This is living people. This is living.
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Dicking about on Twitter here
Pictures of my breakfast on Instagram here.