This weekend we were yet again tasked with a trip to Brighton, to a visit to the house in Ovaltine. We've decided to rip out the master bedroom carpet-an interesting pale woven sea-grass carpet that Angus and his ex chose about 15 years ago, but which after much wear and tear looked like the business end of a cat scratching post. I never liked that carpet, as since we live in our households by Swedish rules (no shoes in the house) walking on that carpet always felt to me a bit like walking on burlap. The good news is, the soles of my feet look good, seeing as it was basically one continuous loofah action.

Slowly we are making those 'finishing touches' to the house. The entire place got painted a year ago, now some areas are being re-painted again. The house is suffering from the bumps and woes that any house suffers over time, especially one that is unlived in-the cobwebs are a regular battle, and it's always wearying to be confronted by a host of tiny roly-poly exoskeletons tucked in the corner of the bathtub.

The garden also has to get some attention, although we've earmarked that for next weekend. It's tidy enough, but at some point someone planted a bit of mint in the garden, and now the whole damn thing smells like a Wrigley's commercial. I think next weekend I'll just dig up the whole damn garden and take my chances. In the far corner of the garden is what used to be a little garden shed, complete with windows and furniture inside of it. However, Father Time has opened up a can on that shed, as the windows were broken by some vandals, the roof has given up the will to live, and a plant has decided that it's one perfect and cozy abode thank you very much, and now resides deep inside of it a la Little Shop of Horrors. It needs to be taken down, only the good news is it's likely not hurting the house sale chances as it just about qualifies as 'country garden shabby chic'.

I have the Living Channel.

Angus thinks the garden would put someone off, but I really don't-if I were viewing it, I would be pleased that nothing specific was really growing in one place. Then I wouldn't have to feel guilty about ripping it all out and planting what I want in there (or maybe I just say that since I am absolutely rubbish at trying to tell what plants are what they grow. Just flower already, dammit, and quit making me guess if you're a weed or a fucking flower).

The carpet was easier said than done. It had been professionally fitted, which meant that the perimeter of the room was set with evil looking board with carpet tacks sticking every which way. As Angus would pull the carpet, some of the carpet's foam backing had so permanently mated with the carpet glue that viewing an eternity together was not an option. So while he pulled up the heavy carpet (who knew that sea grass would weigh so much?), I got on my hands and knees and dug up the black foam backing from the glue.

Inch by inch.

And when he was done heaving up the carpet and launching it from the window into the garden, he got to join me on his hands and knees, digging up foam.

It wasn't too bad-it went quickly and we chatted. Once it was flat and level, we vacuumed the room and packed ourselves off to B&Q to buy wood flooring. Underneath the carpet, and the plywood the carpet guy had put down, were beautiful wood floor. Thick planks of wood, part of the original house from 1776 we'd figured, and they were under the plywood, hiding. But they'd been hidden for so long and the house had battled so many problems that they were not in great shape-to fix them up would take a great deal of time and money, neither of which we want to invest in a house we are trying to sell.

B&Q is like Home Depot, only slightly more depressing, if you can imagine. Pick a huge warehouse. Paint everything a screaming, traffic cone orange, throw in a load of over-priced DIY things that you naturally need, fill it with people dealing with screaming toddlers and arguments about which color tile to use. Now add a whole slew of teenage uninformed staff who would rather use your body as a skateboard ramp than attempt to help you, and you have B&Q. Angus' mood invariably goes downhill when we have to go there, so when we pull into the shops I go into 'Now honey, let's keep our tempers about us this time' mode.

We choose a nice wood flooring, the essentials for the wood floor, and after an unexpected £250 ($500 USD) hour we go back to Ovaltine to fit the floor. This isn't new to us-we've both of us laid floors before in other homes. We swing around with the nonchalance of expert floorers, relaxed and un-intimidated in our work ahead. We carry everything upstairs and set things out, Angus had his sawhorse, saw and measuring stick at the ready. We nail a board down in the middle of the floor, as this is the key element-you have to start the first row completely straight or you're buggered, the whole damn thing will be slightly off-and we start at a straight line.

And my God it was complicated.

We get the first row in, but for some reason the row next to it just won't behave. They won't fit together. The boards are built like a jigsaw puzzle, with bits that need to be fitted into slots on the boards next to it, to hold it together. It's a no-glue, no-nail option, and it's supposed to be easy. It's marketed as something any cute two year-old with their thick and chunky Playskool blocks could do. Slide, slot, click! Slide, slot, click! Put the star shape in the star slot! Easy, yes?

No.

There we were, desperately trying to get the slots to work. Begging. Pleading. Offering sacrifices to the Capricorn moon and throwing our Playskool toys in anger, it just didn't work. We tried to slot the sides first. Then we tried to slot the backs. Then we figured out if you lifted up all the previous rows that had worked, you could get them to click into place easily. The only problem with that was the floor could only be lifted for so long, and then we would need Lou Ferrigno to come in, rip apart yet another shirt, and fix our fucking floor for us.

The good news is, neither of us lost our temper about it. I'd done DIY with my ex before and remember in particular a tiling session in the kitchen that had nearly ended in either divorce or in him selling me to an slave trade wife ring. Angus and his ex had gone toe-to-toe before with design ideas as well (which is good news for me, I guess, as I generally don't have strong opinions about home design. That said, if we have to move into the house in Ovaltine the first thing to change is the master bedroom color schemes. The color of green the walls and skirting board/closet doors/window frames is currently painted reinforces the idea that I really am just a stone's throw away from a nervous breakdown and perpetual insanity, me being in that room would have me circling the perimeter and practicing a Woody Woodpecker laugh while dressed in my blue evening gown, Wellington boots, and Angus' bathrobe while singing He's Got the Whole World In His Hands.)

We finally figured out how to get the floorboards going (and yes we read the instructions. Well, we read them after things started going wrong, and since they continued to be about as helpful as a chocolate doorknob, we felt vindicated that we hadn't started off with reading them). Once we got moving, we were in the groove. It went by fast. I fit the slots and scooted around the floor, while Angus did all the measuring and sawing.

At one point he looked up at me. 'I had been thinking about having sex with you here at some point this morning.' He says. 'But to be honest, I've really gone off the idea.' I look at him. He has sweat pouring down his face and chest and sawdust sprinkled throughout his hair. I look at myself-I too am sweating like one of Old McDonald's lodgers, with dust all over my clothes and black foamy stuff from the floor sticking to random parts of my T-shirt, like little mushroom forests growing off me. He's right-we're both off the idea. I'm not sure I've ever looked so revolting in my life.

We do half the room and then decide it's best to go for the day. We were thinking of going away this weekend, but instead we get a trip back to Ovaltine to finish up the floor, and to paint the bedroom walls. That green is going now, as the leaking gutters had caused a damp problem and the damp problem had caused a mold problem. Now that both of those have been sorted, the walls are dry and can be painted to cover up some of the damp stains that have appeared. And we have the garden to deal with, roly-poly shells to sweep up, and a whole list of other things that could do with attending to.

And they say owning a house is relaxing.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:27 AM | Comments (9) | Add Comment
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