Quite stoically, I was mountaineering on my hands and knees over a sea of rubble to get to the temporary loo in the basement until I impaled my foot on a nail sticking out of a chunk of wood. It was partly my fault for wearing flip-flops, of course.
But the builder boyfriend grudgingly agreed I had to be mollycoddled, and allowed me the luxury of a scaffolding plank over the sea of rubble.
I was delighted with the new arrangement of walking the plank to the loo. But then one day I stepped onto the staircase to descend to the basement and the entire thing moved. It bounced up and down like a House of Horrors at the funfair.
‘Oh yeah, I meant to say,’ called the builder b as I screamed, ‘I’ve moved some bricks so those stairs aren’t fixed anymore.’
Two months into our renovations, I nearly have a bathroom. I nearly have a bedroom. I nearly have a lot of things. I nearly have two whole feet without chunks missing, but not quite.
As for the kitchen, it’s a case of ‘Don’t come a-ringing when the microwave’s a-pinging!’ I don’t even nearly have a kitchen, just a kettle for making the gallons of tea the builder b and his mates require — two parts water to one part sugar — and a microwave for heating ready meals.
Our architectural plans for the loft conversion have gone in, awaiting neighbourly objections. It’s hard to say what they will make of it in ye olde Surrey village. Frankly, nothing would surprise me.
Last night, we were sitting in the living room having our microwave salmon linguine on our laps, when we heard a whistle and the sound of sticks being banged together.