As regular readers will know, we moved house in June. Since then, we have entertained a succession of electricians, carpenters, plumbers and decorators. All of them have carried out their work excellently and have been a pleasure to have around us.
It has, as I predicted, been a long haul. But now it’s nearing its end and we are starting to feel some satisfaction at having restored our 1930s house – reputed, possibly apocryphally, to have briefly been the home of no less an eminence than Sir Roger Moore around the time of his Ivanhoe incarnation – to something that we hope approaches the condition of its art deco heyday.
The pall of dust that permeated our new home for much of the first three months after we started the restoration has now abated. It has not quite disappeared: it stubbornly, mysteriously continues to settle on polished surfaces out of apparently clear air within minutes of the application of the duster. But Sara no longer wonders quite so frequently or quite so plaintively if she will ever see the end of the persistent, hated, all-pervading llwch. In short, it’s getting better.
So much better, in fact, that we have begun to move our furniture back in. And once we’ve moved it in, we move it around. And look at it. And then move it again. And so it will continue until we get it right or alternatively accept that we never will.
And we’ve had to buy stuff, too. The kettle, which had functioned with quiet, unfailingly efficiency in our old home, found the move too traumatic and gave up the ghost within seconds of being placed on the kitchen counters of our new house. It was all too much for it.
And so it was with the toaster. And the coffee machine. The sea air apparently didn’t suit any of them. So we’ve had to replace them all.
And today, we went out to buy a rug. Not that we really had to. The old fireside rug hadn’t surrendered, like the kettle. Having no moving parts or electrical connections, it was made of sterner stuff. But, fact is, it looked wrong. It was primarily a cheerful, bright red in colour and just what was needed to brighten the long winter evenings in our beloved old former home, which, being a converted Victorian coach house, enjoyed somewhat subdued daylight. But here it was trying too hard. We needed something a bit less strident.
So we decided to replace it and made the journey to the enormous rug warehouse fifteen minutes down the A55, a place of pilgrimage on similar occasions throughout our marriage.
And believe me, it really is enormous. Pile after pile, several feet high, of the exquisite woollen output of far-flung China, Iran, Pakistan and Turkey. We were greeted by a particularly helpful and erudite lady, who lovingly directed our attention to the finer points of each rug, from the silken workings of an impossibly expensive offering from India to the yak hair woven by hand into a particularly striking piece from Tibet. She knew a lot about rugs and was anxious to share her knowledge with us.
It was all terribly confusing, so we made our way to a heap of rugs of approximately the size and colour we were looking for. The nice lady followed us.
“Wait a minute,” she called. “I’ll just get one of the staff to help me fold the rugs back as you look at them.”
I begged her not to trouble herself; I would be quite happy to do it.
She looked at me kindly, but firmly replied: “I’m sorry but you can’t do that; health and safety, you see.”
Ah yes, of course. Health and safety. My willingness to risk both and take my chances with the floor coverings was of no account. The maxim volenti non fit injuria has clearly gone the way of our old kettle.
But ultimately we bought a rug and took it home and laid it in front of the fire, which we then lit, because autumn is here and there’s now a chill in the air.
And two more weeks should see it all finished. Our friends will leave us for work elsewhere. We will finish rearranging our furniture. Peace, I hope, will reassert itself.
We’re soon to have our own home to ourselves again. And, pray God, there will be no more llwch.
