I have been left alone with the internet this evening with clear instructions to ‘just buy some taps’ for our upcoming bathroom install. There is an unspoken element of urgency behind this instruction, as due to our joint inability to do ANYTHING AT ALL unless absolutely necessary, it turns out that our builder actually needs said taps. Tomorrow. He needs the taps, tomorrow.
To put this into some context, we have been planning this new bathroom from approximately ten minutes after the last one was completed, badly, ten years ago. I use the term “completed” in the sense of COMPLETE HILARIOUS JOKE!! as obviously, it is still not in any sense “complete”, unless you are talking about your chances of contracting legionnaires disease and/or typhoid, or cutting your hand on the artfully smashed window next to the bath.
This kind of pressure has a predictably ruinous effect on me. Having googled ‘taps’ and spending an increasingly panicky twenty minutes being drawn into reading informative reviews and getting anxious that 1. the only ones I like cost more than our house, and 2. what’s the bloody difference between one tap and another anyway, but 3. there must be a difference if the one I like costs £4000 more than the others ones and 4. I probably haven’t read enough reviews but 5. there are ONE BILLION kinds of tap in the world and how am I going to find time to read all of that and still watch Game of Thrones before bedtime? You see how this goes in my head – even I want to punch myself in the face for my crippling indecision in such matters most of the time.
I now find my self speed-drinking wine and stuffing crackers and hummous into my face in a nervous frenzy instead, writing a blog about what an utter decision-dickhead I am. I am still no closer to having purchased a tap. I am a lot closer to being partially drunk on a monday and smelling of garlic.
The real dilemma now is that it’s becoming increasingly apparent that we will need to sell the old, cast iron bath to fund my new shiny taps.
It is really shit.
Shitter even than the caravan (which is now sold, huzzah!).
In the first flushes of romance and home renovations, it was the one project that for a time I was really proud of. I re-enamelled it myself. (As it turns out, really, REALLY badly. The enamel is all flaking off, leaving you peppered with white flakes upon leaving the bath, and in danger of very literally scratching your arse if you slide around too quickly). Had it not been for shithouse caravan-gate, it would probably be back on Ebay already with an equally brutally honest description, but as this time I’d have to put the listing address as my actual house, my over-developed sense of shame is stopping me for now.
Watch this space though. Those taps aren’t just going to buy themselves now are they?
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