Today I discovered that I made a minor design change in June 2015 that means we've been making one of our products wrong for the past four and a half years. The product in question works, but only just, and there are therefore a whole raft of these things out in the wild, teetering on the brink of disaster.
Today I discovered a damp patch in the ceiling of the extension (you remember the extension don't you? This almost certainly means that a mere nine months after being finished, the extension roof is now leaking.
Today I managed to snap clean through the plastic pipe of the vacuum cleaner while vacuuming the carpet. The house is therefore going to remain just as filthy as it was this morning as I no longer have a functioning vacuum cleaner.
Can today be over yet?
Showing posts with label building work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label building work. Show all posts
Wednesday, 15 January 2020
Friday, 5 April 2019
All done... probably...
I have been waiting and waiting to write this post. I wanted to write it only when the building work was absolutely, completely finished and we'd put all the furniture back into the room, with all the finishing touches in place, and everything looking perfect.
You can stop laughing now.
Once reality had dawned again, and I'd realised there will never be "perfection" as long as I have a cat, a child and a husband, I also realised that I might as well post some pictures of the new room being mostly done.
LittleBear and I got the important stuff done last weekend - we put all the books in the bookcases. Then we moved his toy cupboards into place, and had a major purge of toys and games as we shifted the contents of the toy cupboards into the room as well. Then we moved BigBear's desk and chair in. And then BigBear himself moved in and has been working from home in the room for the past week. Which means my beautiful, tidy room has an explosion of cables and odds and ends all over it, as we're still negotiating on the correct choice of shelves/cupboards to go into the study area of the room.
When I say "negotiating", I'm not sure which of us is currently occupying the home-furnishing equivalent position of the ERG and who is Mrs May, but there will be indicative votes later tonight, and I may need to enforce the sovereignty of The Wife soon.
We have some interesting criteria for our selection of shelves. Firstly, and we are in agreement on this, the shelves should be no higher than the existing toy cupboards (96cm) and ideally a similar width (140-150cm). After that, our priorities are slightly different.
I require that they are adequate to house the various language-reference books still piled up on the bedroom floor (dictionaries and their friends), and I also want to be able to put all the home-computer related detritus away somewhere. The printer paper, the spare USB cables, the backup external hard-disk, the random CDs and DVDs of driver software and other-people's-photos. Seems fair doesn't it? Because I am nothing if not fair and reasonable. BigBear however, has a requirement to house not one, not two, but six vintage computers - three Ataris, a Commodore, an Amiga and a Spectrum. Each must be stored flat, at a stable temperature and with nothing else on top of it. This therefore requires a minimum shelf depth of 30cm.
As with the current shower who are occupying the Palace of Westminster, I am capable of offering multiple solutions to the above conundrum, any of which satisfy two or three of the requirements, but not all of them. One solution houses everything perfectly, except it has drawers that wouldn't open as they'd hit the desk legs. Another solution allows access to the vintage computers but has no space for the books. Another solution is almost perfect except the vintage computers wouldn't fit. Something has to give, and if I wait until we reach a decision, install it, and tidy up I think half my readership will have forgotten who I am.
Herewith therefore, some before and after photos, with very little in the way of furniture featuring yet...
The before and after of the outside do show a distinct improvement, but perhaps not as significant an improvement as we've achieved on the inside.
The light! The space! The absence of horrible ceiling!
You can stop laughing now.
Once reality had dawned again, and I'd realised there will never be "perfection" as long as I have a cat, a child and a husband, I also realised that I might as well post some pictures of the new room being mostly done.
LittleBear and I got the important stuff done last weekend - we put all the books in the bookcases. Then we moved his toy cupboards into place, and had a major purge of toys and games as we shifted the contents of the toy cupboards into the room as well. Then we moved BigBear's desk and chair in. And then BigBear himself moved in and has been working from home in the room for the past week. Which means my beautiful, tidy room has an explosion of cables and odds and ends all over it, as we're still negotiating on the correct choice of shelves/cupboards to go into the study area of the room.
When I say "negotiating", I'm not sure which of us is currently occupying the home-furnishing equivalent position of the ERG and who is Mrs May, but there will be indicative votes later tonight, and I may need to enforce the sovereignty of The Wife soon.
We have some interesting criteria for our selection of shelves. Firstly, and we are in agreement on this, the shelves should be no higher than the existing toy cupboards (96cm) and ideally a similar width (140-150cm). After that, our priorities are slightly different.
I require that they are adequate to house the various language-reference books still piled up on the bedroom floor (dictionaries and their friends), and I also want to be able to put all the home-computer related detritus away somewhere. The printer paper, the spare USB cables, the backup external hard-disk, the random CDs and DVDs of driver software and other-people's-photos. Seems fair doesn't it? Because I am nothing if not fair and reasonable. BigBear however, has a requirement to house not one, not two, but six vintage computers - three Ataris, a Commodore, an Amiga and a Spectrum. Each must be stored flat, at a stable temperature and with nothing else on top of it. This therefore requires a minimum shelf depth of 30cm.
As with the current shower who are occupying the Palace of Westminster, I am capable of offering multiple solutions to the above conundrum, any of which satisfy two or three of the requirements, but not all of them. One solution houses everything perfectly, except it has drawers that wouldn't open as they'd hit the desk legs. Another solution allows access to the vintage computers but has no space for the books. Another solution is almost perfect except the vintage computers wouldn't fit. Something has to give, and if I wait until we reach a decision, install it, and tidy up I think half my readership will have forgotten who I am.
Herewith therefore, some before and after photos, with very little in the way of furniture featuring yet...
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| Before: exterior with rakishly angled windows |
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| After: including mini footballer (a permanent installation) |
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| After: bifolds thrown wide open |
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| Before |
 |
| After |
The light! The space! The absence of horrible ceiling!
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| Before |
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| After, with funky new radiators |
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| Reference books installed in high-level shelves |
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| Before: unusably small stump of room |
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| After: stump has become "my" library corner |
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| After: once I have an armchair I may never leave |
Monday, 25 March 2019
The Final Countdown
So, we enter the last few days of drama. The last chance to make decisions that we may have to live with for many years to come. The first crunch day came and went with failure; the second crunch day came and went with failure. What of the third? Would there even be a third?
No, I'm not talking about politics.
I'm talking about the imminent completion of our building works. Because, yay verily, and forsooth, the windows and doors were delivered at the third time of asking.
And since they arrived on site, a mere six days ago, we've moved from having a non-weather-tight, cold, dark, concrete-floored cave, to a place that is almost a complete room, needing only a coat or two of paint and the final fit of the electrical sockets. There's even carpet. It's almost unimaginable. BigBear was away for most of this final process, only arriving home yesterday to a transformed home.
The only thing was, we spent a huge amount of time several months ago debating colour schemes, and then (when the windows were delayed) we rather shelved all thoughts of finishing details. The process of reaching any kind of consensus had been sufficiently painful, we had no desire to revisit it. Actually, this is sounding more like Brexit all the time.
The process had gone something like this...
I would become wedded to an idea, and announce it eagerly to BigBear, who wouldn't like it. So I would abandon my idea in a huff, and start planning another idea. Meanwhile, BigBear would give careful thought to my idea, and adapt it to something he liked. By that time I was about three ideas further on, and would dismiss his idea, despite it indubitably bearing a striking resemblance to something that only days before had been the one thing in the world I absolutely, definitely, without a doubt, wanted more than anything else at all. Yes, I am a nightmare to live with. He's a very patient man.
Despite my capricious whims, and BigBear's rather more measured approach, we did eventually converge on a colour scheme we were happy with. And then all we had to do was find the paints that actually satisfied that scheme. And the fabrics for lampshades and cushions. I acquired quite a lot of samples.
Before BigBear went away, we painted patches of our final colours on the walls as testers, and waited for daylight to finally be shed upon them.
But... oh dear... the shedding of daylight revealed that I utterly hated one of our chosen colours. Frantic email consultation across the Atlantic revealed that BigBear "trusted my judgement". Brave man. (Though it did lead me to ponder, mostly in jest, to a friend that if BigBear trusted my judgement, couldn't I have just chosen the colour scheme without him all along?)
However, within a day of my change of heart, these arrived...
And then I got busy with my sewing machine and converted a pillowcase I'd found in John Lewis, with the help of some lengths of linen I'd bought, into two cushions, to go with the ready-made cushion I'd also bought.
The custom-made Etsy lampshades also arrived, and my house is now full of even more boxes and piles of "stuff" until any of this can actually be inserted into the finished room.
My house is even more full of dust than it is full of boxes, as the diligent weekend builders have spent all weekend working furiously and have, amongst many things, completed all the plastering. It was sufficiently riveting that I got a good twenty minutes sat peacefully with a cup of coffee on Sunday morning while this happened:
I was going to add a picture of the room as it is now, but given it's only a matter of a couple of days until it's really, actually properly finished, I shall wait for the final denouement.
No, I'm not talking about politics.
I'm talking about the imminent completion of our building works. Because, yay verily, and forsooth, the windows and doors were delivered at the third time of asking.
And since they arrived on site, a mere six days ago, we've moved from having a non-weather-tight, cold, dark, concrete-floored cave, to a place that is almost a complete room, needing only a coat or two of paint and the final fit of the electrical sockets. There's even carpet. It's almost unimaginable. BigBear was away for most of this final process, only arriving home yesterday to a transformed home.
The only thing was, we spent a huge amount of time several months ago debating colour schemes, and then (when the windows were delayed) we rather shelved all thoughts of finishing details. The process of reaching any kind of consensus had been sufficiently painful, we had no desire to revisit it. Actually, this is sounding more like Brexit all the time.
The process had gone something like this...
I would become wedded to an idea, and announce it eagerly to BigBear, who wouldn't like it. So I would abandon my idea in a huff, and start planning another idea. Meanwhile, BigBear would give careful thought to my idea, and adapt it to something he liked. By that time I was about three ideas further on, and would dismiss his idea, despite it indubitably bearing a striking resemblance to something that only days before had been the one thing in the world I absolutely, definitely, without a doubt, wanted more than anything else at all. Yes, I am a nightmare to live with. He's a very patient man.
Despite my capricious whims, and BigBear's rather more measured approach, we did eventually converge on a colour scheme we were happy with. And then all we had to do was find the paints that actually satisfied that scheme. And the fabrics for lampshades and cushions. I acquired quite a lot of samples.
 | |
| How many shades of grey and pinkish grey are there? |
 |
| You can probably see where this colour scheme is going now |
Before BigBear went away, we painted patches of our final colours on the walls as testers, and waited for daylight to finally be shed upon them.
But... oh dear... the shedding of daylight revealed that I utterly hated one of our chosen colours. Frantic email consultation across the Atlantic revealed that BigBear "trusted my judgement". Brave man. (Though it did lead me to ponder, mostly in jest, to a friend that if BigBear trusted my judgement, couldn't I have just chosen the colour scheme without him all along?)
However, within a day of my change of heart, these arrived...
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| Calamine and Dimpse it is |
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| Cushion fronts |
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| Cushion backs |
My house is even more full of dust than it is full of boxes, as the diligent weekend builders have spent all weekend working furiously and have, amongst many things, completed all the plastering. It was sufficiently riveting that I got a good twenty minutes sat peacefully with a cup of coffee on Sunday morning while this happened:
 | |
| Plastering as spectator sport. In pyjamas | . |
Tuesday, 19 February 2019
Hamster wheels again
I set off thinking about writing about the eternal hamster wheel that I inhabit in my mind, repetitive thoughts and arguments cycling round and round and round. Never ending, never concluding, never progressing, only an infinite loop of the same conversations where I supply both halves and somehow still lose the argument.
And then I looked back through old posts and discovered I have use the phrase "hamster wheel" to describe my endless, sleep-destroying, anxiety-inducing thoughts on at least four other occasions. So not only are my thoughts trapped in perpetual loops, returning to the same point with monotonous regularity, but so are my similes. I can't even manage to be original in my repetitiveness.
So what is it that my poor brain is doing to me?
It's still banging on about the windows.
Not the fact that the windows crashed (doesn't Windows always crash?)
Not even the fact that the window company someone managed to cancel the order to make the replacement windows without telling anyone.
No.
I'm still pointlessly fretting about the change in size of the windows.
I read and re-read emails where there is no hint that the specification is subject to change; emails where there is no suggestion of an apology or acknowledgement that anyone other than me is at fault.
I stare at the "finished" wall into which the bifold doors will be installed. I see all the spare wall that could be busy being window if it hadn't been turned into wall.
I study the diagrams I drew for the builders, and the 50 point text showing a 4000mm opening for bifold doors.
And I still cannot fathom why they changed the size of the doors when there is demonstrably space for the doors to be the size I specified.
I still cannot fathom why they would think it was OK to change the size of the doors without confirming it in writing with me first.
I still cannot fathom why they would ignore seven emails asking about the change in size, and then tell me it was what I wanted.
And so I have endless conversations in my head in which I point out that the builders are either unprofessional, incompetent or untruthful*. I explain why in nauseating detail, determined to demonstrate the rightness of my way of seeing things**.
I don't even know what response I would like in my head when I'm the one providing both sides of the conversation, let alone if I had the guts to actually try and express any of these thoughts and feelings out loud. Which I'm too much of a confrontation-averse munchkin to ever think about. Would an apology suffice? I don't know. Would I feel better if they simply said, "you're right, we screwed up, the bifolds should have been bigger?" What is it that I want?***
The true absurdity is that we're going to have massive bifold doors, through which sunlight will stream in all its unfettered glory. An extra thirty centimetres is unlikely to make one iota of difference.
So why can't my mind let go?
Why can't it shut up?
Why can't I be more like BigBear, with his phlegmatic shrug?
Is it because it feels like unfinished business? Is it because it is, literally, unfinished? Is it because after nearly four months living in a building site, I'm simply so stressed that there has to be a release valve for the stress, and my mind has latched onto the only thing that's demonstrably wrong on site and is venting through that?
One day I will go to bed without lying awake thinking about window sizes and the permutations of events that could lead to them being anything other than 4m. One day I will drive to work without explaining out loud, to nobody, what the problem with 3.7m windows is. One day I will sit in my new room, gazing through my new bifold doors and I won't care any more. One day.
* All, undoubtedly, massive over-reactions.
** This effect is not dissimilar to a situation identified by the cartoon xkcd, in which someone on the internet is wrong.
*** What I actually want is for someone to wave a magic wand and make both the hole and the windows that are on order 4m wide, as requested. This is clearly not going to happen, but I find magical thinking so helpful when trying to find practical solutions to my mental contortions.
And then I looked back through old posts and discovered I have use the phrase "hamster wheel" to describe my endless, sleep-destroying, anxiety-inducing thoughts on at least four other occasions. So not only are my thoughts trapped in perpetual loops, returning to the same point with monotonous regularity, but so are my similes. I can't even manage to be original in my repetitiveness.
So what is it that my poor brain is doing to me?
It's still banging on about the windows.
Not the fact that the windows crashed (doesn't Windows always crash?)
Not even the fact that the window company someone managed to cancel the order to make the replacement windows without telling anyone.
No.
I'm still pointlessly fretting about the change in size of the windows.
I read and re-read emails where there is no hint that the specification is subject to change; emails where there is no suggestion of an apology or acknowledgement that anyone other than me is at fault.
I stare at the "finished" wall into which the bifold doors will be installed. I see all the spare wall that could be busy being window if it hadn't been turned into wall.
I study the diagrams I drew for the builders, and the 50 point text showing a 4000mm opening for bifold doors.
And I still cannot fathom why they changed the size of the doors when there is demonstrably space for the doors to be the size I specified.
I still cannot fathom why they would think it was OK to change the size of the doors without confirming it in writing with me first.
I still cannot fathom why they would ignore seven emails asking about the change in size, and then tell me it was what I wanted.
And so I have endless conversations in my head in which I point out that the builders are either unprofessional, incompetent or untruthful*. I explain why in nauseating detail, determined to demonstrate the rightness of my way of seeing things**.
I don't even know what response I would like in my head when I'm the one providing both sides of the conversation, let alone if I had the guts to actually try and express any of these thoughts and feelings out loud. Which I'm too much of a confrontation-averse munchkin to ever think about. Would an apology suffice? I don't know. Would I feel better if they simply said, "you're right, we screwed up, the bifolds should have been bigger?" What is it that I want?***
The true absurdity is that we're going to have massive bifold doors, through which sunlight will stream in all its unfettered glory. An extra thirty centimetres is unlikely to make one iota of difference.
So why can't my mind let go?
Why can't it shut up?
Why can't I be more like BigBear, with his phlegmatic shrug?
Is it because it feels like unfinished business? Is it because it is, literally, unfinished? Is it because after nearly four months living in a building site, I'm simply so stressed that there has to be a release valve for the stress, and my mind has latched onto the only thing that's demonstrably wrong on site and is venting through that?
One day I will go to bed without lying awake thinking about window sizes and the permutations of events that could lead to them being anything other than 4m. One day I will drive to work without explaining out loud, to nobody, what the problem with 3.7m windows is. One day I will sit in my new room, gazing through my new bifold doors and I won't care any more. One day.
* All, undoubtedly, massive over-reactions.
** This effect is not dissimilar to a situation identified by the cartoon xkcd, in which someone on the internet is wrong.
*** What I actually want is for someone to wave a magic wand and make both the hole and the windows that are on order 4m wide, as requested. This is clearly not going to happen, but I find magical thinking so helpful when trying to find practical solutions to my mental contortions.
Wednesday, 13 February 2019
In which disbelief reigns
Our building works have passed from comedy, through tragedy and straight into farce.
For those who are familiar with the oeuvre of Kevin McCloud, and his "Grand Designs", it is always the windows. Always.
Our windows and doors were due on Monday, but did not arrive.
Then they were due on Tuesday, but did not arrive.
LittleBear, in what I initially dismissed as a histrionic fit, declared, "That's it! If they're not here today, they're never coming!" He even put in a full-blown, lip-trembling half sob to complete the dramatic performance.
Being a mature, sensible adult, with a firm grasp on how the real world operates, I told him that this was not a sensible stance, and that of course they would arrive, it was only a matter of 'when'.
And then, today, MrsBuilder contacted me.
After the previously mentioned tragedy, in which the lorry carrying the windows crashed, naturally the windows were re-ordered. We were given an estimated delivery date. MrsBuilder pursued the manufacturers as the delivery date approached, and was assured that all was in order. Until now.
It turns out that the left hand and the right hand of the window company are not on speaking terms. I'm not convinced that Right Hand even knows Left Hand exists. Because Left Hand happily acknowledged that the original delivery had failed and that they needed to make replacements. Meanwhile, when Right Hand received this information they appear to have shrugged and said, "Pah! This is just a copy of that order we've just finished, what a silly mistake, we'll chuck the order in the bin."
And thus it is that Left Hand has been happily confirming things with MrsBuilder, while Right Hand have been happily not making any windows and doors at all.
And thus it is that four months after paying a quite considerable sum of money for some quite considerable doors and windows, not only do we not have any doors and windows, but nobody has even started making them.
I think I would probably be more angry and upset about this if I weren't in a state of utterly bewildered shock. I find it hard to imagine how a company can operate in this way. I have occasionally had cause to be disparaging about my own company, but no matter how hard I try, I cannot imagine one half of the company acknowledging and confirming an order, while the other half unilaterally abandons it.
To her great credit, MrsBuilder has been right on it from the moment she discovered this situation, and already has a quote through for an alternative supplier, and is pursuing others as I type.
The original window company have, apparently, offered a £500 refund as some form of apology for their incompetence. I am pressing for this to be the case even if (when) we don't get them to attempt to make the windows for a third time. I have no idea whether I will succeed in this quest, as I don't actually have a contract with the original window company, I have a contract with my builders.
To be honest, the thought of arguing about compensation with my builders makes me feel more stressed and anxious than the thought of weeks and weeks of waiting for more bloody windows. Waiting doesn't involved interacting with other human beings. Arguing that four months without a trace of a window is unacceptable does involved interacting with other human beings. I don't like other human beings. I don't like interacting with other human beings. I think I feel slightly sick now...
For those who are familiar with the oeuvre of Kevin McCloud, and his "Grand Designs", it is always the windows. Always.
Our windows and doors were due on Monday, but did not arrive.
Then they were due on Tuesday, but did not arrive.
LittleBear, in what I initially dismissed as a histrionic fit, declared, "That's it! If they're not here today, they're never coming!" He even put in a full-blown, lip-trembling half sob to complete the dramatic performance.
Being a mature, sensible adult, with a firm grasp on how the real world operates, I told him that this was not a sensible stance, and that of course they would arrive, it was only a matter of 'when'.
And then, today, MrsBuilder contacted me.
After the previously mentioned tragedy, in which the lorry carrying the windows crashed, naturally the windows were re-ordered. We were given an estimated delivery date. MrsBuilder pursued the manufacturers as the delivery date approached, and was assured that all was in order. Until now.
It turns out that the left hand and the right hand of the window company are not on speaking terms. I'm not convinced that Right Hand even knows Left Hand exists. Because Left Hand happily acknowledged that the original delivery had failed and that they needed to make replacements. Meanwhile, when Right Hand received this information they appear to have shrugged and said, "Pah! This is just a copy of that order we've just finished, what a silly mistake, we'll chuck the order in the bin."
And thus it is that Left Hand has been happily confirming things with MrsBuilder, while Right Hand have been happily not making any windows and doors at all.
And thus it is that four months after paying a quite considerable sum of money for some quite considerable doors and windows, not only do we not have any doors and windows, but nobody has even started making them.
I think I would probably be more angry and upset about this if I weren't in a state of utterly bewildered shock. I find it hard to imagine how a company can operate in this way. I have occasionally had cause to be disparaging about my own company, but no matter how hard I try, I cannot imagine one half of the company acknowledging and confirming an order, while the other half unilaterally abandons it.
To her great credit, MrsBuilder has been right on it from the moment she discovered this situation, and already has a quote through for an alternative supplier, and is pursuing others as I type.
The original window company have, apparently, offered a £500 refund as some form of apology for their incompetence. I am pressing for this to be the case even if (when) we don't get them to attempt to make the windows for a third time. I have no idea whether I will succeed in this quest, as I don't actually have a contract with the original window company, I have a contract with my builders.
To be honest, the thought of arguing about compensation with my builders makes me feel more stressed and anxious than the thought of weeks and weeks of waiting for more bloody windows. Waiting doesn't involved interacting with other human beings. Arguing that four months without a trace of a window is unacceptable does involved interacting with other human beings. I don't like other human beings. I don't like interacting with other human beings. I think I feel slightly sick now...
Friday, 1 February 2019
A lightening of the mood
The last forty-eight hours have been even more fraught than the rest of the trauma of having building work done.
Having launched not one, but two, intemperate rants at the builders about two different issues on Wednesday, I then spent a discomfited night wondering whether this time I had Gone Too Far. Thursday morning dawned, and there was no sign of any builders arriving for the day. Relatively early on Thursday, however, MrsBuilder emailed me back...
Which made me feel a bit better. For a couple of hours. After three hours I was a little twitchy; once six hours had passed I began to feel a trifle anxious; by bedtime I felt sick and scared by the lack of response. Had I finally managed to piss them off so much they'd given up on me? Suffice to say, I did not sleep well last night. When there was still no sign of anyone arriving on site today, my sense of doom deepened and I drove to work in tears. I finally cracked at lunchtime today, and sent a friendly message including the line,
Several hours passed with no response.
I even psyched myself up to phoning MrsBuilder. No answer on her mobile or landline.
I drove home from work in tears.
I was genuinely convinced that they were downing tools and refusing to complete the job.
And then MrsBuilder emailed with comprehensive replies to all my questions, a plan to meet on Monday, details of when the carpet-man would be coming to measure up, reassurances about various issues, and the timings of when work would be starting again. And apologies because she'd had to go to an HMRC training course straight after her meeting.
A weight was lifted from my shoulders.
And once the weight was lifted, I gained some clarity on life again. I even gained enough clarity to suddenly see a way to solve the issue of The Thing That Is Built Wrong. Stress and anger and fear had stopped me seeing a solution. A deep breathe and it all seemed obvious.
More importantly, I was able to realise how lucky I am that after my last blog post multiple different friends texted and emailed me to check I was OK, to reassure me, to offer me a shoulder to cry on or a pub to meet in.
And I realised how lucky I am to have a friend how has insisted that she will babysit for LittleBear on Monday night so that BigBear and I can go out together.
And how lucky I am that my colleagues tolerate my arriving at work and ranting with the aid of diagrams on a whiteboard.
And how lucky I am that BigBear is considerably calmer than me.
And how lucky I am that for no reason other than we were all tired, and we all deserved a treat, me and my little family went to our local Indian restaurant for dinner tonight. (Yes, LittleBear only ate rice, naan and poppadom, but he loved it, and he loves coming out with us.)
And I finally dare to whisper that I am extra specially lucky that PoorPuss's world has been revolutionised by the addition of tablecloth to the floor, and for the past five days and nights, he has confined his output to his litter tray.
Having launched not one, but two, intemperate rants at the builders about two different issues on Wednesday, I then spent a discomfited night wondering whether this time I had Gone Too Far. Thursday morning dawned, and there was no sign of any builders arriving for the day. Relatively early on Thursday, however, MrsBuilder emailed me back...
"I am just about to head into a meeting but as soon as I am out I shall reply to your other emails."
Which made me feel a bit better. For a couple of hours. After three hours I was a little twitchy; once six hours had passed I began to feel a trifle anxious; by bedtime I felt sick and scared by the lack of response. Had I finally managed to piss them off so much they'd given up on me? Suffice to say, I did not sleep well last night. When there was still no sign of anyone arriving on site today, my sense of doom deepened and I drove to work in tears. I finally cracked at lunchtime today, and sent a friendly message including the line,
"I'm hoping the absence of diligent all-weather builders for the past two days is because of the weather and not because you've all got the hump with me for being a stroppy cow!"
Several hours passed with no response.
I even psyched myself up to phoning MrsBuilder. No answer on her mobile or landline.
I drove home from work in tears.
I was genuinely convinced that they were downing tools and refusing to complete the job.
And then MrsBuilder emailed with comprehensive replies to all my questions, a plan to meet on Monday, details of when the carpet-man would be coming to measure up, reassurances about various issues, and the timings of when work would be starting again. And apologies because she'd had to go to an HMRC training course straight after her meeting.
A weight was lifted from my shoulders.
And once the weight was lifted, I gained some clarity on life again. I even gained enough clarity to suddenly see a way to solve the issue of The Thing That Is Built Wrong. Stress and anger and fear had stopped me seeing a solution. A deep breathe and it all seemed obvious.
More importantly, I was able to realise how lucky I am that after my last blog post multiple different friends texted and emailed me to check I was OK, to reassure me, to offer me a shoulder to cry on or a pub to meet in.
And I realised how lucky I am to have a friend how has insisted that she will babysit for LittleBear on Monday night so that BigBear and I can go out together.
And how lucky I am that my colleagues tolerate my arriving at work and ranting with the aid of diagrams on a whiteboard.
And how lucky I am that BigBear is considerably calmer than me.
And how lucky I am that for no reason other than we were all tired, and we all deserved a treat, me and my little family went to our local Indian restaurant for dinner tonight. (Yes, LittleBear only ate rice, naan and poppadom, but he loved it, and he loves coming out with us.)
And I finally dare to whisper that I am extra specially lucky that PoorPuss's world has been revolutionised by the addition of tablecloth to the floor, and for the past five days and nights, he has confined his output to his litter tray.
Wednesday, 30 January 2019
Rationality has left the building
I may, in passing, have mentioned that I'm finding this building work lark a bit stressful.
It's also possible that I am prone, every now and then, to a soupcon of anxiety.
It should, probably, come as no surprise that the stresses of getting the building work done is proving rather anxiety-inducing.
There have been a few incidents that are not world-shattering, and in the bigger picture, well, they're not really in the "bigger" picture, because they're small. But they've been vexing, and frustrating, and have caused me to become somewhat agitated. There've been a few occasions when the diligent, all-weather builders have either misunderstood, misinterpreted, or re-interpreted my designs/sketches, and I've come home from work to find an unexpected surprise has been constructed. I don't like surprises of that sort. Twice I've insisted they change what they've built. The third time I've shrugged off as not worth fighting over. The fourth time (today) caused me to launch a major broadside, that was perhaps a trifle intemperate. The word "ranty" was used by BigBear, in a very gentle and loving way. He's been remarkably tolerant of my irrationality.
There's also been The Question Of The Doors. There's not really much point going into it, but the brief version is that a failure in communications means the massive bifold doors that I asked for are not as massive as I had asked for. I wouldn't even really mind this, if something like this had happened:
Builder: Those doors you wanted?
PhysicsBear: Yes?
Builder: If you have that cupboard you mentioned in passing, there's no room for that size door. Do you want a smaller cupboard or smaller doors?
PhysicsBear: Good question, let me have a think.
Instead, what happened was this:
...
...
...
...
...
And then I measured where the doors are going, found it was smaller than I was expecting, and asked why. I asked why seven times by email, over the course of a week and a half before getting an answer. And then the answer was, "it's your own fault for wanting a cupboard."
The finished room will be lovely. The not-quite-so-massive doors are still going to be massive, and still be lovely. The slightly-surprising constructions will only ever be surprising to me, and though surprising, they are beautifully built. I cannot fault the workmanship of the diligent, all-weather builders.
But...
I feel sick with anxiety. I am afraid that my intemperate ranting will mean the builders will refuse to finish the job. My hands shake as I drive home from work, as I hope that I won't have to speak to them in person. I wonder what terrible things the builders are saying about me to their friends. Some of my friends are their friends. It's not that big a village. How many people that I know now think I'm rude and angry? How many people that I don't know now think I'm rude and angry? Will I move from being "the weird woman who cries outside school" through "crazy cape-wearing lady" and straight into "psycho customer that nobody wants to deal with"?
I am tired of being tired. Tired of lying awake at night having arguments in my head. Tired of thinking and over-thinking every decision and conversation. I want my sleep back, my peace-of-mind back and most of all my home back.
I want to cry.
I want to hide.
I want it all to just go away.
I want it to be over.
It's also possible that I am prone, every now and then, to a soupcon of anxiety.
It should, probably, come as no surprise that the stresses of getting the building work done is proving rather anxiety-inducing.
There have been a few incidents that are not world-shattering, and in the bigger picture, well, they're not really in the "bigger" picture, because they're small. But they've been vexing, and frustrating, and have caused me to become somewhat agitated. There've been a few occasions when the diligent, all-weather builders have either misunderstood, misinterpreted, or re-interpreted my designs/sketches, and I've come home from work to find an unexpected surprise has been constructed. I don't like surprises of that sort. Twice I've insisted they change what they've built. The third time I've shrugged off as not worth fighting over. The fourth time (today) caused me to launch a major broadside, that was perhaps a trifle intemperate. The word "ranty" was used by BigBear, in a very gentle and loving way. He's been remarkably tolerant of my irrationality.
There's also been The Question Of The Doors. There's not really much point going into it, but the brief version is that a failure in communications means the massive bifold doors that I asked for are not as massive as I had asked for. I wouldn't even really mind this, if something like this had happened:
Builder: Those doors you wanted?
PhysicsBear: Yes?
Builder: If you have that cupboard you mentioned in passing, there's no room for that size door. Do you want a smaller cupboard or smaller doors?
PhysicsBear: Good question, let me have a think.
Instead, what happened was this:
...
...
...
...
...
And then I measured where the doors are going, found it was smaller than I was expecting, and asked why. I asked why seven times by email, over the course of a week and a half before getting an answer. And then the answer was, "it's your own fault for wanting a cupboard."
The finished room will be lovely. The not-quite-so-massive doors are still going to be massive, and still be lovely. The slightly-surprising constructions will only ever be surprising to me, and though surprising, they are beautifully built. I cannot fault the workmanship of the diligent, all-weather builders.
But...
I feel sick with anxiety. I am afraid that my intemperate ranting will mean the builders will refuse to finish the job. My hands shake as I drive home from work, as I hope that I won't have to speak to them in person. I wonder what terrible things the builders are saying about me to their friends. Some of my friends are their friends. It's not that big a village. How many people that I know now think I'm rude and angry? How many people that I don't know now think I'm rude and angry? Will I move from being "the weird woman who cries outside school" through "crazy cape-wearing lady" and straight into "psycho customer that nobody wants to deal with"?
I am tired of being tired. Tired of lying awake at night having arguments in my head. Tired of thinking and over-thinking every decision and conversation. I want my sleep back, my peace-of-mind back and most of all my home back.
I want to cry.
I want to hide.
I want it all to just go away.
I want it to be over.
Monday, 28 January 2019
A false dawn
Needless to say, along with commenting on your baby sleeping well, it would appear that commenting on the cat not weeing is tempting Fate. And Fate is a cruel mistress.
The details of what PoorPuss did and when he did it have already blurred in my mind, so I shall regale you instead with the highlights, happening in an unspecified order over the past few days...
... PoorPuss diligently dug at the carpet, until he'd lifted it from the edges, so he could pee on the floorboards and then let the carpet cover it over again.
... I woke somewhat earlier than usual, when LittleBear trotted to the bathroom at 6:30. Working on the principle that PoorPuss is panic-weeing when he hears us moving around but can't find us, I scampered downstairs and found a contented cat on the sofa. I stroked him and turned the light on and, feeling dangerously smug that we were getting somewhere, I returned to bed. Imagine my delight half and hour later to find both wee and poo on the carpet behind the door.
... BigBear worked from home one day. PoorPuss is generally quite content when he has one of his people in the house, and he did indeed spend most of the morning snoozing by the radiator in BigBear's study (formerly known as the spare bedroom). In the afternoon, however, he became agitated, and prowled the house. BigBear heard him yowling in the vicinity of the Doorway of Doom, so headed downstairs to reassure him. PoorPuss was duly reassured. BigBear returned to his desk. PoorPuss returned to his yowling. BigBear returned to PoorPuss. PoorPuss had wet the carpet.
... Mild weather and extreme vexation led us to leave PoorPuss (with bed, food, etc) in the building site. He was fine. The carpet was fine.
... Cold weather led us to take pity on PoorPuss, and not shut him in the building site. BigBear decided to try sleeping on the sofa with PoorPuss to keep him calm. This lasted about half an hour, before BigBear couldn't take the combination of being stared at from close range, and having his feet attacked. The following morning, all was relatively well, until I heard the sound of carpet being scratched, but didn't get downstairs in time, finding only fresh cat wee dripping down the skirting board and soaking through the carpet.
... Yesterday, I spent some time carefully cutting to size an old PVC tablecloth to size, so it wraps under the edges of the carpet, and extends into the room far enough to disappear under the furniture. The carpet and the tablecloth both survived the night, and PoorPuss is currently in his new favourite place, beside the radiator in the spare room/study.
This may or may not be the solution to our woes, but at least it gave me one day without having to wash the carpet though. And given I've been awake with a feverish LittleBear since 3:30 am, I'm grateful for small mercies.
(I would like to point out that my carpets are not all a rather off-putting shade of brown... the lighting hasn't done my slate grey/blue carpet any favours!)
The details of what PoorPuss did and when he did it have already blurred in my mind, so I shall regale you instead with the highlights, happening in an unspecified order over the past few days...
... PoorPuss diligently dug at the carpet, until he'd lifted it from the edges, so he could pee on the floorboards and then let the carpet cover it over again.
... I woke somewhat earlier than usual, when LittleBear trotted to the bathroom at 6:30. Working on the principle that PoorPuss is panic-weeing when he hears us moving around but can't find us, I scampered downstairs and found a contented cat on the sofa. I stroked him and turned the light on and, feeling dangerously smug that we were getting somewhere, I returned to bed. Imagine my delight half and hour later to find both wee and poo on the carpet behind the door.
... BigBear worked from home one day. PoorPuss is generally quite content when he has one of his people in the house, and he did indeed spend most of the morning snoozing by the radiator in BigBear's study (formerly known as the spare bedroom). In the afternoon, however, he became agitated, and prowled the house. BigBear heard him yowling in the vicinity of the Doorway of Doom, so headed downstairs to reassure him. PoorPuss was duly reassured. BigBear returned to his desk. PoorPuss returned to his yowling. BigBear returned to PoorPuss. PoorPuss had wet the carpet.
... Mild weather and extreme vexation led us to leave PoorPuss (with bed, food, etc) in the building site. He was fine. The carpet was fine.
... Cold weather led us to take pity on PoorPuss, and not shut him in the building site. BigBear decided to try sleeping on the sofa with PoorPuss to keep him calm. This lasted about half an hour, before BigBear couldn't take the combination of being stared at from close range, and having his feet attacked. The following morning, all was relatively well, until I heard the sound of carpet being scratched, but didn't get downstairs in time, finding only fresh cat wee dripping down the skirting board and soaking through the carpet.
... Yesterday, I spent some time carefully cutting to size an old PVC tablecloth to size, so it wraps under the edges of the carpet, and extends into the room far enough to disappear under the furniture. The carpet and the tablecloth both survived the night, and PoorPuss is currently in his new favourite place, beside the radiator in the spare room/study.
This may or may not be the solution to our woes, but at least it gave me one day without having to wash the carpet though. And given I've been awake with a feverish LittleBear since 3:30 am, I'm grateful for small mercies.
 |
| Vinyl tablecloth is a stylish addition to any home |
(I would like to point out that my carpets are not all a rather off-putting shade of brown... the lighting hasn't done my slate grey/blue carpet any favours!)
Tuesday, 22 January 2019
Progress, of a sort
I believe I may have mentioned, once or twice, just in passing, the tendency that IdiotCat PoorPuss currently has to wee on the carpet. I have more-or-less given up on the carpet - it is quite literally clinging to life by a thread, but while that thread still holds, the carpet stays.
When I say I have given up on the carpet, naturally I don't mean I've given up on the tedious process of cleaning the wee out of it. I'm becoming something of an expert at it now. Obviously the underlay has been removed from the offending area for the foreseeable future, which leaves the perfect space for sliding a sacrificial towel underneath to absorb the worst of the effluent. Then comes the oven tray, allowing a concentrated solution of biological detergent to be poured into the carpet and rubbed in. A sequence of scrubbing, rinsing, squeezing, rinsing, scrubbing, squeezing etc then follows until the water coming out is mostly clean and mostly soap-free. Then we're back to the sacrificial towels to be packed under and over the wet carpet to soak up the bulk of the water. Oh, and don't forget to scrub the floorboards too.
I have a conveniently located pile of sacrificial towels to hand these days.
It would be fair to say that I'm pretty tired of washing the carpet every day. And tired of the residual odour that no amount of scrubbing and washing seems to remove. I have a dark suspicion that there is some area of carpet that PoorPuss has made use of that I have not yet found. And yes, I have crawled around the floor with my nose to the carpet inhaling deeply. I have also come to associate the smell of Persil Biological detergent with the smell of cat urine. Which is why, when I got dressed this morning, I gave a start and sniffed my newly-laundered bra, convinced that it smelt of cat wee. My life is so glamorous.
We have tried a variety of techniques to keep PoorPuss calm and happy, and none of them have consistently worked. Occasionally we have a night when the carpet remains unsullied and we foolishly start to hope for a New Dawn.
We are gradually, achingly slowly, homing on the things that make PoorPuss happy, and the things that make him sad. We have moved from Weird Herbal Calming Spray to the Feliway pheromone spray. We have applied a liberal sprinkling of bicarbonate of soda to the carpet. (It may not help the cat, but it helps absorb odours.) We make sure he gets his favourite meal in the evening. We make sure he's snuggled up in "his" corner of the sofa as we go to bed. We leave the door from the living room to the rest of the house open, so he doesn't feel trapped. And twice now, the carpet has remained dry.
We do indeed have a New Dawn. A dawn that cracked at 4am, when PoorPuss came up to our bedroom to tell us that he was bored/scared/lonely. I escorted him downstairs, settled him back in "his" corner, and returned to bed*.
I then lay awake for two hours, until I heard the telltale sound of claw on carpet, and, leaping out of bed, I scampered down to find him digging up the poor, beleaguered patch of carpet. Whether he was about to relieve himself, I'll never know, but once I was there he didn't do so. The thought of what he might be doing made the next half hour in bed even more stressful than the previous two hours had been. Eventually at 6:30 I pottered downstairs to read my book on the sofa. Being too lazy/stupid (your choice) I didn't bother to turn the central heating on, despite sub-zero temperatures outside. Which is how I came to be wearing BigBear's fleece, two scarves and three cushions on the sofa at half past six on a Tuesday morning.
But at least the carpet was dry.
Progress. Of a sort.
* Early in my relationship with PoorPuss, I discovered our sleeping habits are incompatible. He is very talkative at about 4 or 5 am. I am not. To avoid me swearing and throwing things, it has always been better for both of us if we sleep on different floors. It's worked perfectly well for thirteen years. I don't intend to encourage conversation at 4am, hence escorting him back to his own sleeping domain.
When I say I have given up on the carpet, naturally I don't mean I've given up on the tedious process of cleaning the wee out of it. I'm becoming something of an expert at it now. Obviously the underlay has been removed from the offending area for the foreseeable future, which leaves the perfect space for sliding a sacrificial towel underneath to absorb the worst of the effluent. Then comes the oven tray, allowing a concentrated solution of biological detergent to be poured into the carpet and rubbed in. A sequence of scrubbing, rinsing, squeezing, rinsing, scrubbing, squeezing etc then follows until the water coming out is mostly clean and mostly soap-free. Then we're back to the sacrificial towels to be packed under and over the wet carpet to soak up the bulk of the water. Oh, and don't forget to scrub the floorboards too.
I have a conveniently located pile of sacrificial towels to hand these days.
It would be fair to say that I'm pretty tired of washing the carpet every day. And tired of the residual odour that no amount of scrubbing and washing seems to remove. I have a dark suspicion that there is some area of carpet that PoorPuss has made use of that I have not yet found. And yes, I have crawled around the floor with my nose to the carpet inhaling deeply. I have also come to associate the smell of Persil Biological detergent with the smell of cat urine. Which is why, when I got dressed this morning, I gave a start and sniffed my newly-laundered bra, convinced that it smelt of cat wee. My life is so glamorous.
We have tried a variety of techniques to keep PoorPuss calm and happy, and none of them have consistently worked. Occasionally we have a night when the carpet remains unsullied and we foolishly start to hope for a New Dawn.
We are gradually, achingly slowly, homing on the things that make PoorPuss happy, and the things that make him sad. We have moved from Weird Herbal Calming Spray to the Feliway pheromone spray. We have applied a liberal sprinkling of bicarbonate of soda to the carpet. (It may not help the cat, but it helps absorb odours.) We make sure he gets his favourite meal in the evening. We make sure he's snuggled up in "his" corner of the sofa as we go to bed. We leave the door from the living room to the rest of the house open, so he doesn't feel trapped. And twice now, the carpet has remained dry.
We do indeed have a New Dawn. A dawn that cracked at 4am, when PoorPuss came up to our bedroom to tell us that he was bored/scared/lonely. I escorted him downstairs, settled him back in "his" corner, and returned to bed*.
I then lay awake for two hours, until I heard the telltale sound of claw on carpet, and, leaping out of bed, I scampered down to find him digging up the poor, beleaguered patch of carpet. Whether he was about to relieve himself, I'll never know, but once I was there he didn't do so. The thought of what he might be doing made the next half hour in bed even more stressful than the previous two hours had been. Eventually at 6:30 I pottered downstairs to read my book on the sofa. Being too lazy/stupid (your choice) I didn't bother to turn the central heating on, despite sub-zero temperatures outside. Which is how I came to be wearing BigBear's fleece, two scarves and three cushions on the sofa at half past six on a Tuesday morning.
But at least the carpet was dry.
Progress. Of a sort.
* Early in my relationship with PoorPuss, I discovered our sleeping habits are incompatible. He is very talkative at about 4 or 5 am. I am not. To avoid me swearing and throwing things, it has always been better for both of us if we sleep on different floors. It's worked perfectly well for thirteen years. I don't intend to encourage conversation at 4am, hence escorting him back to his own sleeping domain.
Sunday, 30 December 2018
And a less Merry Christmas to one in particular
Just at the moment, the milk of human kindness is not flowing through my veins. Or perhaps I mean the milk of feline kindness. IdiotCat is Not My Favourite Cat at the moment.
Over Christmas we went to visit GrannyBear, and LocalFriend kindly came in to feed and cuddle IdiotCat. He appears to have been mostly well-behaved and delighted to see LocalFriend when she came.
For the past two nights, we have visited GrandmaBear and GrandadBear in The North. Two nights is generally enough for IdiotCat to cope on his own, with full water and food bowls. Naturally, he's always delighted to see us come home, but doesn't otherwise appear to suffer any ill-effects from being temporarily abandoned. The trauma of the building work appears to have rendered this no longer true.
We arrived home today to find the house utterly reeking of cat wee.
IdiotCat had not only relieved himself in his favourite corner, behind the living room door, but all the way along the edge of the door. Some of it was still nauseatingly damp, and some of it was dry, stale and acrid. Hooray.
Which is how it came to pass that I dispatched BigBear and LittleBear upstairs to build a hydraulic robot arm, while I took the door off its hinges, lifted the carpet; prised carpet staples out of the floor and took a stanley knife to the underlay to remove a section of it. I then got down on hands and knees and scrubbed the (reeking) floorboards with vinegar and bicarbonate of soda. And then I washed and rinsed, and washed and rinsed, and washed and rinsed the (reeking) underlay. And finally, despairingly, I washed, rinsed, scrubbed, vinegared, washed, rinsed, scrubbed and vinegared the (reeking) carpet.
To survive the night, without IdiotCat marauding into our bedrooms and keeping us awake, I have (temporarily) re-hung the door, replaced the underlay with old towels, and semi re-fitted the carpet. It certainly looks considerably fluffier and cleaner and fresher than it did before. However, I am now sitting, watching television and sniffing the suspicious waft of stale cat urine that I am convinced is still emanating from the carpet nearby.
Merry Bloody Christmas.
Over Christmas we went to visit GrannyBear, and LocalFriend kindly came in to feed and cuddle IdiotCat. He appears to have been mostly well-behaved and delighted to see LocalFriend when she came.
For the past two nights, we have visited GrandmaBear and GrandadBear in The North. Two nights is generally enough for IdiotCat to cope on his own, with full water and food bowls. Naturally, he's always delighted to see us come home, but doesn't otherwise appear to suffer any ill-effects from being temporarily abandoned. The trauma of the building work appears to have rendered this no longer true.
We arrived home today to find the house utterly reeking of cat wee.
IdiotCat had not only relieved himself in his favourite corner, behind the living room door, but all the way along the edge of the door. Some of it was still nauseatingly damp, and some of it was dry, stale and acrid. Hooray.
Which is how it came to pass that I dispatched BigBear and LittleBear upstairs to build a hydraulic robot arm, while I took the door off its hinges, lifted the carpet; prised carpet staples out of the floor and took a stanley knife to the underlay to remove a section of it. I then got down on hands and knees and scrubbed the (reeking) floorboards with vinegar and bicarbonate of soda. And then I washed and rinsed, and washed and rinsed, and washed and rinsed the (reeking) underlay. And finally, despairingly, I washed, rinsed, scrubbed, vinegared, washed, rinsed, scrubbed and vinegared the (reeking) carpet.
To survive the night, without IdiotCat marauding into our bedrooms and keeping us awake, I have (temporarily) re-hung the door, replaced the underlay with old towels, and semi re-fitted the carpet. It certainly looks considerably fluffier and cleaner and fresher than it did before. However, I am now sitting, watching television and sniffing the suspicious waft of stale cat urine that I am convinced is still emanating from the carpet nearby.
Merry Bloody Christmas.
Thursday, 20 December 2018
Lurching from triumph to disaster
I had thought that I would be posting some more splendid updates about the progress on our building site, and in theory I could be, as the ceiling and walls are now fully insulated; the first fit of wiring has gone in; the exterior cladding is almost complete along one wall; the roof is nearly complete (only awaiting lead flashing); the internal plasterboarding is all fitted and today the new floor is being poured.
But...
When I got home on Friday I found another poo-present from the cat, there were no windows, and the diligent all-weather builders had got a bit carried away and almost completely boxed in the planned storage area designated to be the "loft" above the downstairs bathroom. I hadn't been expecting them to start work on that yet, and had not imagined that my half-conversation in broken English on Wednesday about what the plans were would result in them misinterpreting my flapping hands and building a hopelessly wrong construction.
Filled with exhaustion, sadness and anger I wrote a rather long, and somewhat ranting, email to MrsBuilder. To my enormous relief she replied almost immediately, essentially saying, "they shouldn't have done that, we'll put it right." For once I was not left fretting day-and-night over the weekend that I'd over-reacted; or that my builders would walk off in a huff; or that I'd be told it was all my fault and I'd have to live with the mistake; or any of the other permutations that my brain was warming up to panic about.
Unfortunately she also let me know that there'd been an "incident" with the lorry bring the windows, and they were delayed. That was it, no further information about the nature of the incident, or the length of delay. Phew, for a moment there it was looking as though I wouldn't have anything to spend the weekend worrying about, but at the last minute something was pulled out of the hat.
Which brings us neatly to the start of the week, at which point we discovered that the lorry had crashed. On the plus side, the driver wasn't injured. On the minus side, the windows were. They have to be made again from scratch. The factory closes for two weeks over Christmas. The windows and doors are now due on site at the start of February.
February.
Only another six or seven weeks of living in a building site.
I know that it will be lovely when it's finished, and that many years of a solidly built, well-planned extension will make a month and a half delay pale into insignificance, but it's not exactly the Christmas present I was hoping for.
But...
When I got home on Friday I found another poo-present from the cat, there were no windows, and the diligent all-weather builders had got a bit carried away and almost completely boxed in the planned storage area designated to be the "loft" above the downstairs bathroom. I hadn't been expecting them to start work on that yet, and had not imagined that my half-conversation in broken English on Wednesday about what the plans were would result in them misinterpreting my flapping hands and building a hopelessly wrong construction.
Filled with exhaustion, sadness and anger I wrote a rather long, and somewhat ranting, email to MrsBuilder. To my enormous relief she replied almost immediately, essentially saying, "they shouldn't have done that, we'll put it right." For once I was not left fretting day-and-night over the weekend that I'd over-reacted; or that my builders would walk off in a huff; or that I'd be told it was all my fault and I'd have to live with the mistake; or any of the other permutations that my brain was warming up to panic about.
Unfortunately she also let me know that there'd been an "incident" with the lorry bring the windows, and they were delayed. That was it, no further information about the nature of the incident, or the length of delay. Phew, for a moment there it was looking as though I wouldn't have anything to spend the weekend worrying about, but at the last minute something was pulled out of the hat.
Which brings us neatly to the start of the week, at which point we discovered that the lorry had crashed. On the plus side, the driver wasn't injured. On the minus side, the windows were. They have to be made again from scratch. The factory closes for two weeks over Christmas. The windows and doors are now due on site at the start of February.
February.
Only another six or seven weeks of living in a building site.
I know that it will be lovely when it's finished, and that many years of a solidly built, well-planned extension will make a month and a half delay pale into insignificance, but it's not exactly the Christmas present I was hoping for.
Friday, 7 December 2018
Roofs come and go
The adventures in re-building the extension continue apace. For a brief, dizzying period we had absolutely no roof at all over the extension. And since that included having no roof on top of the old, completely non-water-tight, flat roof that still covers part of the kitchen and the bathroom, and since that flat roof houses sizeable quantities of mains wiring for lights, there was a liberal application of tarpaulins. And there were high winds. And lashing rain. Which was fun.
Fortunately, the tarpaulins remained in situ over the leaky flat roof, and the rain remained on the outside of the tarpaulins, and hence the bathroom.
Unfortunately, the tarpaulins made loud, dramatic, flapping noises which scared IdiotCat. A lot. So, despite the presence of a litter tray, and despite the cat's evident ability to use said litter tray, we have returned to a time of receiving deposits on the carpet. Mostly fluid deposits. Poor old puss. And now, despite our best efforts to clean the favoured corner of carpet, and replace the noxious vapours with the delicate smell of synthetic carpet shampoo, there is a corner of the room that clearly smells just right to the IdiotCat, and he keeps using it.
You see my wits?
You see where the end of my wits are?
I'm well beyond that point now.
Meanwhile, it's beginning to look as though I was so traumatized by the disappearance of the roof that I didn't take a proper picture of it.
So here we have the beginnings of a new wall, featuring distinct evidence of the absence of a roof.
But, fear not! There was a flitch plate on the way. And it arrived, along with more strong wind and lashing rain. Despite the distinctly adverse weather conditions, the all-weather builders clambered around on the roof, chiselling out a hole in the wall into which to embed the flitch plate, and then proceeded to build a completely new roof. Substantially lower than the old roof. Which is odd.
The first thing that might strike the eagle-eyed among you is that shifting the roof line down was an eminently sensible thing to do... because the old roof line actually cut across the window sill of one of the upstairs windows. I'm pretty sure you won't find that as a design feature in many architecture books.
It's still not clear why the roof has moved down as much as it has. I did ask the all-weather builders why it was different, and discovered another endearing feature of the house that I hadn't known before - the old ridge beam of the roof had not been down the middle of the extension, so the two sides had had asymmetric slopes. So they've mounted the new ridge beam (flitch plate!) down the centre of the extension, just for the fun and symmetry of it.
One of my colleagues helpfully suggested that perhaps the roof was at the new height because the roof beams come in particular sizes/angles, so it had to be made like that to fit a standard size. At which point I had to explain to him that every single piece of timber is being cut to size and fitted by hand on site. None of this is off-the-shelf building.
So we're left with a little bit of a mystery. I have no doubt that there's a good reason, as the lovely builders haven't yet done anything without a good reason, it's just I don't know what it is yet. I'd like to know, because six inches lost from the height of the room makes a big difference. You can do a lot with six inches. It's enough for an entire extra shelf of books. I don't want to have lost book shelf space for no good reason.
Meanwhile the windows and doors are due to arrive in a week's time, and the all-weather, weekend-working builders are due to spend the weekend putting slates on the roof, which is Awfully Exciting.
I'm fondly hoping that as the room returns to being a place that doesn't make alarming and unpredictable noises, IdiotCat will stop making alarming and unpredictable deposits. I suspect I hope in vain...
Fortunately, the tarpaulins remained in situ over the leaky flat roof, and the rain remained on the outside of the tarpaulins, and hence the bathroom.
Unfortunately, the tarpaulins made loud, dramatic, flapping noises which scared IdiotCat. A lot. So, despite the presence of a litter tray, and despite the cat's evident ability to use said litter tray, we have returned to a time of receiving deposits on the carpet. Mostly fluid deposits. Poor old puss. And now, despite our best efforts to clean the favoured corner of carpet, and replace the noxious vapours with the delicate smell of synthetic carpet shampoo, there is a corner of the room that clearly smells just right to the IdiotCat, and he keeps using it.
You see my wits?
You see where the end of my wits are?
I'm well beyond that point now.
Meanwhile, it's beginning to look as though I was so traumatized by the disappearance of the roof that I didn't take a proper picture of it.
 |
| A view of the neighbour's garden |
But, fear not! There was a flitch plate on the way. And it arrived, along with more strong wind and lashing rain. Despite the distinctly adverse weather conditions, the all-weather builders clambered around on the roof, chiselling out a hole in the wall into which to embed the flitch plate, and then proceeded to build a completely new roof. Substantially lower than the old roof. Which is odd.
 |
| New vs Old |
It's still not clear why the roof has moved down as much as it has. I did ask the all-weather builders why it was different, and discovered another endearing feature of the house that I hadn't known before - the old ridge beam of the roof had not been down the middle of the extension, so the two sides had had asymmetric slopes. So they've mounted the new ridge beam (flitch plate!) down the centre of the extension, just for the fun and symmetry of it.
One of my colleagues helpfully suggested that perhaps the roof was at the new height because the roof beams come in particular sizes/angles, so it had to be made like that to fit a standard size. At which point I had to explain to him that every single piece of timber is being cut to size and fitted by hand on site. None of this is off-the-shelf building.
So we're left with a little bit of a mystery. I have no doubt that there's a good reason, as the lovely builders haven't yet done anything without a good reason, it's just I don't know what it is yet. I'd like to know, because six inches lost from the height of the room makes a big difference. You can do a lot with six inches. It's enough for an entire extra shelf of books. I don't want to have lost book shelf space for no good reason.
Meanwhile the windows and doors are due to arrive in a week's time, and the all-weather, weekend-working builders are due to spend the weekend putting slates on the roof, which is Awfully Exciting.
I'm fondly hoping that as the room returns to being a place that doesn't make alarming and unpredictable noises, IdiotCat will stop making alarming and unpredictable deposits. I suspect I hope in vain...
Thursday, 29 November 2018
Scientifically-proven rage
4am
The edge of Storm Diana battering the house.
The wind moaning against the windows sounding like a child keening. My ears alert to the faintest murmur from my son.
The creaking of the roof joists like a child's footsteps across the bedroom floor. My hands sweaty and my heart thudding as I wait for the door to our room to be opened by a sleepless child.
The flapping and rattling of the tarpaulins outside. Wondering if there's any point looking outside to see whether everything is safe.
The muffled tearing and snagging sound of a cat scratching a carpet. I nearly go downstairs to deal with the defecating beast, but decide it can wait.
BigBear turns to me, "sorry if I woke you."
He hadn't. Or perhaps he had. Or perhaps we'd both been woken by the same noises outside. Either way, I was awake before he went to the bathroom.
"If it makes you feel any better, I'm now lying awake worrying about how much the building work is costing."
It didn't.
Earlier in the evening, when it was actually reasonable to be awake, BigBear had shown me a brief report on the effects of sleep deprivation on anger. Apparently, cutting someone's sleep from 7 hours per night down to 4.5 hours per night for only two nights increases anger. I am willing to provide corroborating evidence that this is true.
BigBear's comment filled me with rage. Disproportionate, unreasonable rage. In the cold light of day, it's hard to say quite why. Being worried about the cost of a very expensive building project is fiscally responsible. Communicating with your spouse when you're worried is a fundamental part of a good marriage. Lying awake in the night is something that should evoke empathy and sympathy, not anger. And yet there I lay, feeling unjustifiably aggrieved. Aggrieved that I am desperately short of time, and sleep, and energy, but that the one thing we are blessed with is enough money, and yet now I'm supposed to be worrying about that as well? Feeling as though BigBear's worries somehow negated mine, or perhaps were a criticism of mine. My nebulous anxiety was being diminished by his much more rational concern. Because it's all about me. Especially in the middle of the night.
And then I got over it.
But I was still awake.
And still awake after that.
And then awake some more.
I tried relaxing one muscle at a time. I tried focussing on simply counting to ten as I breathed, clearing my mind of all extraneous thoughts. I tried taking myself off to a "happy place" in my mind, but it turns out there isn't one at the moment.
If we'd had a spare room, I would have retreated to it to read a boring book and nod off. But the spare room is now the "store everything that used to be in the extension" room, and doesn't have a bed. Or even enough spare floor to curl up on. I considered trundling downstairs to the sofa, but then remembered I would be yowled at by IdiotCat, not to mention have to suffer Storm Diana whistling through the not-exactly-airtight temporary door.
By the time 7am rolled round, not only was I tired, worried, tearful and stressed, I was also very, very bored. So, naturally, the first thing I did was go downstairs and check that IdiotCat had not made any further deposits. To my surprise, he hadn't. Though evidence of the scratching, shredding noises in the night was apparent in the pile of carpet-fluff that lay heaped around the doorway. Feeling marginally improved after not cleaning up excrement, I made BigBear a cup of tea to say sorry for being cross in the night. Even though he hadn't known I was cross. Sorry BigBear.
I told you communicating with your spouse was an important part of a good marriage didn't I? Blog posts and unsolicited cups of tea count as communication. Really they do.
The edge of Storm Diana battering the house.
The wind moaning against the windows sounding like a child keening. My ears alert to the faintest murmur from my son.
The creaking of the roof joists like a child's footsteps across the bedroom floor. My hands sweaty and my heart thudding as I wait for the door to our room to be opened by a sleepless child.
The flapping and rattling of the tarpaulins outside. Wondering if there's any point looking outside to see whether everything is safe.
The muffled tearing and snagging sound of a cat scratching a carpet. I nearly go downstairs to deal with the defecating beast, but decide it can wait.
BigBear turns to me, "sorry if I woke you."
He hadn't. Or perhaps he had. Or perhaps we'd both been woken by the same noises outside. Either way, I was awake before he went to the bathroom.
"If it makes you feel any better, I'm now lying awake worrying about how much the building work is costing."
It didn't.
Earlier in the evening, when it was actually reasonable to be awake, BigBear had shown me a brief report on the effects of sleep deprivation on anger. Apparently, cutting someone's sleep from 7 hours per night down to 4.5 hours per night for only two nights increases anger. I am willing to provide corroborating evidence that this is true.
BigBear's comment filled me with rage. Disproportionate, unreasonable rage. In the cold light of day, it's hard to say quite why. Being worried about the cost of a very expensive building project is fiscally responsible. Communicating with your spouse when you're worried is a fundamental part of a good marriage. Lying awake in the night is something that should evoke empathy and sympathy, not anger. And yet there I lay, feeling unjustifiably aggrieved. Aggrieved that I am desperately short of time, and sleep, and energy, but that the one thing we are blessed with is enough money, and yet now I'm supposed to be worrying about that as well? Feeling as though BigBear's worries somehow negated mine, or perhaps were a criticism of mine. My nebulous anxiety was being diminished by his much more rational concern. Because it's all about me. Especially in the middle of the night.
And then I got over it.
But I was still awake.
And still awake after that.
And then awake some more.
I tried relaxing one muscle at a time. I tried focussing on simply counting to ten as I breathed, clearing my mind of all extraneous thoughts. I tried taking myself off to a "happy place" in my mind, but it turns out there isn't one at the moment.
If we'd had a spare room, I would have retreated to it to read a boring book and nod off. But the spare room is now the "store everything that used to be in the extension" room, and doesn't have a bed. Or even enough spare floor to curl up on. I considered trundling downstairs to the sofa, but then remembered I would be yowled at by IdiotCat, not to mention have to suffer Storm Diana whistling through the not-exactly-airtight temporary door.
By the time 7am rolled round, not only was I tired, worried, tearful and stressed, I was also very, very bored. So, naturally, the first thing I did was go downstairs and check that IdiotCat had not made any further deposits. To my surprise, he hadn't. Though evidence of the scratching, shredding noises in the night was apparent in the pile of carpet-fluff that lay heaped around the doorway. Feeling marginally improved after not cleaning up excrement, I made BigBear a cup of tea to say sorry for being cross in the night. Even though he hadn't known I was cross. Sorry BigBear.
I told you communicating with your spouse was an important part of a good marriage didn't I? Blog posts and unsolicited cups of tea count as communication. Really they do.
Wednesday, 28 November 2018
Things I nearly said
I nearly wrote a post about all the good things that are beginning to happen on our building site. After a week of inactivity due to the steels that were delivered not being quite right, things have picked up pace.
I nearly wrote about the beautiful steel structure that's held into massive concrete foundation pads with nice big bolts.
I nearly wrote about the new damp-proof membrane we have, and the first course of block work marking out the new walls.
I nearly wrote about the newly drawn structural engineering plans that approve the use of queen trusses, and the omission of purlins with the addition of a flitch plate* that will all come together to provide the high, vaulted ceiling that we want.
I nearly wrote about building control signing off the structure as being to drawing, allowing all further work to continue.
But this morning, I stepped out of the shower to find a small boy thundering upstairs....
"Mummy? I like the cat even less** now."
"Oh dear. What's he done now?"
"He's poo-ed on the carpet this time."
Oh hooray. It's a good thing I bought a box of latex gloves for wearing when cleaning out his litter tray. Much easier to pick up poo when wearing a glove that can simply be thrown away. And to add insult to injury the IdiotCat had used his litter tray to wee in during the night. I do feel sorry for my poor puss, as he is clearly very anxious and very upset about the building work, but I have no idea what I can actually do to make his life easier.
When added to the insanity-inducing insomnia that has plagued me in the small hours of the night for the past three nights, poo-on-the-floor was the straw that broke the camel's back. I had already been awake since 4:30, dropping off briefly around 6:00, only to be woken by LittleBear at 6:15 when he laid claim to a nightmare.
So, despite all the Good Things that are happening, all I really want to do is sit down and cry, and hope that the howling winds outside don't lift the roof slates off tonight. It won't matter after tonight, since tomorrow the slates are being deliberately taken off so the entire roof can be rebuilt, queen trusses, flitch plate and all.
And now, as the evening progresses, I can feel my anxiety increasing, not only as I become more tired, but as bedtime approaches and I start to fear lying awake worrying about the roof, and the floor, and the walls, and the windows, and the cat, and the poo, and the carpet, and, and, and, and....
I'm worrying about worrying.
I'm fretting about not sleeping in a way that will lead directly to not sleeping.
And just like having no ideas about how to soothe the cat's fears away, I have no ideas about how to soothe my own fears away. How to stop myself worrying about sleep, or indeed how to stop my mind whirring manically for hours if I do wake up. I tried every meditation trick I have up my sleeve last night, to no avail. Probably because meditation doesn't come easily to me, I haven't tried it in a few years and I'm a bit rubbish at it. Maybe I should practise a bit more. I do keep telling LittleBear that you only become good at something by practising. Perish the thought that I take my own advice...
* I have developed something of an obsession with the term "flitch plate" so I shall indubitably write about it properly at some point. Who wouldn't want to say "flitch" as often as possible? Flitch. Flitch. Flitch.
** The current dislike of IdiotCat is not so much a dislike of IdiotCat himself, as his behaviour. Along the lines of loving the sinner but hating the sin. It is the wee-ing on the carpet which has led to the statements of dislike.
I nearly wrote about the beautiful steel structure that's held into massive concrete foundation pads with nice big bolts.
I nearly wrote about the new damp-proof membrane we have, and the first course of block work marking out the new walls.
I nearly wrote about the newly drawn structural engineering plans that approve the use of queen trusses, and the omission of purlins with the addition of a flitch plate* that will all come together to provide the high, vaulted ceiling that we want.
I nearly wrote about building control signing off the structure as being to drawing, allowing all further work to continue.
But this morning, I stepped out of the shower to find a small boy thundering upstairs....
"Mummy? I like the cat even less** now."
"Oh dear. What's he done now?"
"He's poo-ed on the carpet this time."
Oh hooray. It's a good thing I bought a box of latex gloves for wearing when cleaning out his litter tray. Much easier to pick up poo when wearing a glove that can simply be thrown away. And to add insult to injury the IdiotCat had used his litter tray to wee in during the night. I do feel sorry for my poor puss, as he is clearly very anxious and very upset about the building work, but I have no idea what I can actually do to make his life easier.
When added to the insanity-inducing insomnia that has plagued me in the small hours of the night for the past three nights, poo-on-the-floor was the straw that broke the camel's back. I had already been awake since 4:30, dropping off briefly around 6:00, only to be woken by LittleBear at 6:15 when he laid claim to a nightmare.
So, despite all the Good Things that are happening, all I really want to do is sit down and cry, and hope that the howling winds outside don't lift the roof slates off tonight. It won't matter after tonight, since tomorrow the slates are being deliberately taken off so the entire roof can be rebuilt, queen trusses, flitch plate and all.
And now, as the evening progresses, I can feel my anxiety increasing, not only as I become more tired, but as bedtime approaches and I start to fear lying awake worrying about the roof, and the floor, and the walls, and the windows, and the cat, and the poo, and the carpet, and, and, and, and....
I'm worrying about worrying.
I'm fretting about not sleeping in a way that will lead directly to not sleeping.
And just like having no ideas about how to soothe the cat's fears away, I have no ideas about how to soothe my own fears away. How to stop myself worrying about sleep, or indeed how to stop my mind whirring manically for hours if I do wake up. I tried every meditation trick I have up my sleeve last night, to no avail. Probably because meditation doesn't come easily to me, I haven't tried it in a few years and I'm a bit rubbish at it. Maybe I should practise a bit more. I do keep telling LittleBear that you only become good at something by practising. Perish the thought that I take my own advice...
* I have developed something of an obsession with the term "flitch plate" so I shall indubitably write about it properly at some point. Who wouldn't want to say "flitch" as often as possible? Flitch. Flitch. Flitch.
** The current dislike of IdiotCat is not so much a dislike of IdiotCat himself, as his behaviour. Along the lines of loving the sinner but hating the sin. It is the wee-ing on the carpet which has led to the statements of dislike.
Thursday, 22 November 2018
Definitely a cat-astrophe
The IdiotCat has managed to avoid walking in any more concrete, which is indubitably a Good Thing. The IdiotCat is, however, deeply suspicious of the entire building site now, and despite the lovely builders best and most determined efforts to ensure he always has a route out, he has decided that he doesn't like it, and that he would rather attempt to dig holes in the carpet and wee in the living room. This is indubitably a Bad Thing. (Not dissimilar to Mog's Bad Thing, for any aficionado's of Judith Kerr's work).
I have now had to clear up more of the IdiotCat's Bad Things than I ever had to clear up after LittleBear when he was moving out of nappies and into Big Boy Pants. And nobody built LittleBear his own special ramp so he could safely climb over a freshly poured set of concrete foundations to get to the toilet either.
And this is why I was late to work this morning after shampooing the carpet (again) and we now have a litter tray in the living room. Yay.
Meanwhile, I turned into my normal self last week and lay awake inhabiting the hamster wheel of my mind, wondering about as many different permutations of roof construction and ceiling-shape as I could think of, entirely pointlessly, and with no reference to any facts whatsoever. Ill-informed, exhaustion-fuelled speculation is always the best way to spend the nights. After a few days (and nights) of this, I decided that since I'd actually employed a competent, professional, friendly building firm, it would perhaps make more sense to furnish myself with some facts by asking questions instead of imagining what might be happening.
Fighting my own tiny battle against the stigma of mental ill-health, I sent an email confessing to MrsBuilder (who is also in charge of all their admin) that I suffer from anxiety and that it was getting on top of me, and that even though my anxiety issues aren't technically their problem, I'd really quite like to know some more of the details of what's planned for the structure of the roof. And then I spent several hours feeling even more anxious about having made a complete arse of myself. MrsBuilder, happily, didn't see it that way. Or, if she did, she was very diplomatic about it, as she immediately made an appointment to come round with MrBuilder and go through everything together, and assured me that I only ever had to ask if there was anything I wanted to know.
I'm so pleased I employed this company. As BigBear put it, they have empathy.
Having a meeting with Mr and MrsBuilder did provide me with plenty of facts, which has eased the sense of "Aaaaaghhhhh, I don't know what's going on." It hasn't done much to help with the sense of impending doom as I discovered they're going to have to remove the entire extension roof and rebuild it from scratch. Perhaps the volume of timber in the garden should have given it away.
And just when we thought we'd found all the most entertaining parts of the former construction, more came to light.
Do you remember the welded beam?
It turns out that the blackened marks that I'd rashly assumed to be evidence of welding are soft. And sticky. Even those of you who are unfamiliar with welding are probably more-or-less aware that welds are rarely soft. Or sticky. So, yes, it does look as though that fish plate* is holding the two beams together with mastic.
Fortunately the new steel work that will replace the not-welded, not-bolted, not-set-in-foundations steel work arrived on Tuesday, ready to be fitted yesterday and today.
Unfortunately the new steel work hadn't been made right, so has had to go back. I'm currently working on the basis that since the house hasn't fallen down in the past twenty-five years, it's not likely to choose the next few days to do so merely because I now know that it's only staying up through pixie-dust and unicorn tears.
Stress? What stress?
* Another of my new discoveries, along with king trusses, queen trusses and purlins is that the slab of metal used to weld two beams together is a fish plate. Though if it's not actually welded, maybe it's not a fish plate?
I have now had to clear up more of the IdiotCat's Bad Things than I ever had to clear up after LittleBear when he was moving out of nappies and into Big Boy Pants. And nobody built LittleBear his own special ramp so he could safely climb over a freshly poured set of concrete foundations to get to the toilet either.
And this is why I was late to work this morning after shampooing the carpet (again) and we now have a litter tray in the living room. Yay.
Meanwhile, I turned into my normal self last week and lay awake inhabiting the hamster wheel of my mind, wondering about as many different permutations of roof construction and ceiling-shape as I could think of, entirely pointlessly, and with no reference to any facts whatsoever. Ill-informed, exhaustion-fuelled speculation is always the best way to spend the nights. After a few days (and nights) of this, I decided that since I'd actually employed a competent, professional, friendly building firm, it would perhaps make more sense to furnish myself with some facts by asking questions instead of imagining what might be happening.
Fighting my own tiny battle against the stigma of mental ill-health, I sent an email confessing to MrsBuilder (who is also in charge of all their admin) that I suffer from anxiety and that it was getting on top of me, and that even though my anxiety issues aren't technically their problem, I'd really quite like to know some more of the details of what's planned for the structure of the roof. And then I spent several hours feeling even more anxious about having made a complete arse of myself. MrsBuilder, happily, didn't see it that way. Or, if she did, she was very diplomatic about it, as she immediately made an appointment to come round with MrBuilder and go through everything together, and assured me that I only ever had to ask if there was anything I wanted to know.
I'm so pleased I employed this company. As BigBear put it, they have empathy.
Having a meeting with Mr and MrsBuilder did provide me with plenty of facts, which has eased the sense of "Aaaaaghhhhh, I don't know what's going on." It hasn't done much to help with the sense of impending doom as I discovered they're going to have to remove the entire extension roof and rebuild it from scratch. Perhaps the volume of timber in the garden should have given it away.
And just when we thought we'd found all the most entertaining parts of the former construction, more came to light.
Do you remember the welded beam?
 |
| Top quality "welding" |
Fortunately the new steel work that will replace the not-welded, not-bolted, not-set-in-foundations steel work arrived on Tuesday, ready to be fitted yesterday and today.
Unfortunately the new steel work hadn't been made right, so has had to go back. I'm currently working on the basis that since the house hasn't fallen down in the past twenty-five years, it's not likely to choose the next few days to do so merely because I now know that it's only staying up through pixie-dust and unicorn tears.
Stress? What stress?
* Another of my new discoveries, along with king trusses, queen trusses and purlins is that the slab of metal used to weld two beams together is a fish plate. Though if it's not actually welded, maybe it's not a fish plate?
Wednesday, 14 November 2018
Almost a cat-astrophe
Today has been a day of good news and bad news.
The good news is that Building Control were happy with our three lovely holes, and the three lovely holes are now (mostly) full of lovely concrete.
The less good news is that IdiotCat is an idiot, and after the concrete was poured, it was then pawed, and now we have a small cat with grey, crusty feet*.
The good news is that the first bit of construction has started, and we now actually have a stretch of wall that, unlike its predecessor, is joined to the rest of the house.
The bad news is that we've found a(nother) spot of comedy building technique. The main ridge beam running along the ridge-line of the extension roof has a large crack/break through the middle of it. And, rather like the amusingly-joined steel beams, this has been, well, amusingly joined.
The main ridge beam has had two random off-cuts of wood slapped either side of it, and screwed in. Because a few woodscrews is almost as good as a beam, isn't it?
The good news is that the garden has a large heap of new timber waiting to be used to rebuild the roof.
So, it feels as though the rate of calamitous-discovery-making has slowed down, and the rate of Good Things Being Built has increased. And aside from the cat getting his paws where he shouldn't, the Good Things Being Built are going well. And it's only been going on for a week so far.
* For those concerned about animal welfare, I should point out that BigBear is devoted to IdiotCat and has helped him clean most of the concrete off again, and IdiotCat is now perfectly happy, curled up in his favourite place - a heap of BigBear's clothes.
The good news is that Building Control were happy with our three lovely holes, and the three lovely holes are now (mostly) full of lovely concrete.
The less good news is that IdiotCat is an idiot, and after the concrete was poured, it was then pawed, and now we have a small cat with grey, crusty feet*.
The good news is that the first bit of construction has started, and we now actually have a stretch of wall that, unlike its predecessor, is joined to the rest of the house.
 |
| A real wall! |
The bad news is that we've found a(nother) spot of comedy building technique. The main ridge beam running along the ridge-line of the extension roof has a large crack/break through the middle of it. And, rather like the amusingly-joined steel beams, this has been, well, amusingly joined.
 |
| This really is the main ridge beam |
The main ridge beam has had two random off-cuts of wood slapped either side of it, and screwed in. Because a few woodscrews is almost as good as a beam, isn't it?
The good news is that the garden has a large heap of new timber waiting to be used to rebuild the roof.
 |
| Timber and blockwork ready for use |
So, it feels as though the rate of calamitous-discovery-making has slowed down, and the rate of Good Things Being Built has increased. And aside from the cat getting his paws where he shouldn't, the Good Things Being Built are going well. And it's only been going on for a week so far.
* For those concerned about animal welfare, I should point out that BigBear is devoted to IdiotCat and has helped him clean most of the concrete off again, and IdiotCat is now perfectly happy, curled up in his favourite place - a heap of BigBear's clothes.
Tuesday, 13 November 2018
Causes for joy and despair
The destruction continues apace, with the house now being deficient to the tune of two roofs, three walls, four windows and a door. It has, however, acquired three Very Large Holes. These will be for pouring concrete into as footings for the new steelwork, assuming the buildings inspectors who were coming today are happy with the holes. At nearly a metre cubed each, I can't see how anybody wouldn't be happy with them really. If you're going to have a hole... make sure it's a big one. Or three big ones, which must be three times as good.
Before it finally disappears forever, I do have another little visual treat for you, however. I present for your delectation the manner in which the lean-to extension is joined to the flat-roof extension:
Please don't spend too long staring at that image, looking for the cross-bonding of bricks, or the anchor bolts, or indeed anything at all. There is literally nothing, not even silicone sealant, in the gap between the two buildings. They are simply built "quite close" to each other. Not even that close.
On the plus side, we have discovered that the pitched roof is actually attached to the main body of the house with something more than glue and good wishes. Not much more, but something more.
In fact there are at least four M6 bolts holding the first set of roof timbers to the wall. Which is four more bolts than appear to have been used to hold anything else together. This genuinely made me almost giddy with excitement. You have to take your pleasures where you can.
Meanwhile, the nature of my mind is such that I have been awake since 4:30 this morning fretting about the roof trusses, and their location, and appearance, and size and whether they will have to span what was going to be an open, vaulted ceiling and completely change how the room was intended to look, or whether there's an alternative structure, or whether we should revert to having a "normal" flat ceiling in the revamped extension to avoid having exposed (not very beautiful) trusses. You'd be surprised by how many hours I can spend worrying about roof trusses.
And then this morning, MrBuilder arrived on site, as well as the Diligent Weekend Builders. So I asked MrBuilder if we had to have the trusses visible, and now I know all about king trusses and queen trusses and purlins, and he knows what we want, and it's all fine, we almost certainly don't need to have exposed trusses, and what was I worrying about anyway? But never fear, I'm sure there'll be another thing I can lie awake worrying about soon.
Before it finally disappears forever, I do have another little visual treat for you, however. I present for your delectation the manner in which the lean-to extension is joined to the flat-roof extension:
 |
| Construction at its finest |
Please don't spend too long staring at that image, looking for the cross-bonding of bricks, or the anchor bolts, or indeed anything at all. There is literally nothing, not even silicone sealant, in the gap between the two buildings. They are simply built "quite close" to each other. Not even that close.
On the plus side, we have discovered that the pitched roof is actually attached to the main body of the house with something more than glue and good wishes. Not much more, but something more.
 |
| A bolt, a bolt, my kingdom for a bolt! |
Meanwhile, the nature of my mind is such that I have been awake since 4:30 this morning fretting about the roof trusses, and their location, and appearance, and size and whether they will have to span what was going to be an open, vaulted ceiling and completely change how the room was intended to look, or whether there's an alternative structure, or whether we should revert to having a "normal" flat ceiling in the revamped extension to avoid having exposed (not very beautiful) trusses. You'd be surprised by how many hours I can spend worrying about roof trusses.
And then this morning, MrBuilder arrived on site, as well as the Diligent Weekend Builders. So I asked MrBuilder if we had to have the trusses visible, and now I know all about king trusses and queen trusses and purlins, and he knows what we want, and it's all fine, we almost certainly don't need to have exposed trusses, and what was I worrying about anyway? But never fear, I'm sure there'll be another thing I can lie awake worrying about soon.
Saturday, 10 November 2018
The horror, the horror...
In a slightly surprising (to me) turn of events, the builders arrived at eight o'clock on Saturday morning to continue ripping the house apart, and appear to have every intention of doing the same on Sunday. Nobody can say they're not going for it. Today was, however, punctuated with pauses for them to stare and shake their heads, and on occasions to point and laugh. For those with minimal experience of building work... pointing and laughing is never a good sign.
I was chatting to a friend outside school the other day, and commented on the fact that the ceiling had been taken down. To my surprise she said, "Well I hope they're putting it back up again." I realised at that point that perhaps I had not outlined the full scope of what was happening to the house. In short, about a third of the downstairs area is being completely demolished, new foundations, floors, walls, doors and windows put in. Oh, and they might have to take the roof off and put it back on again as well.
To get your eye in, here's a picture from before they started, and the end of today...
The only really notable thing about the above photograph is the abominable tongue-and-groove sloping ceiling that I've spent nineteen years hating.
Not only has the ceiling vanished, so has a section of the wall at the end, not to mention one of the roofs, and a large concrete lintel. I only regret that the wall to the right of the patio doors had gone before I had a chance to take a photograph of how it was joined to the side wall. Which is to say, it wasn't. There was a thick bead of silicone sealant approximately bridging the gap. It was possible to rock the entire wall backwards and forwards by hand. The draughts that used to plague that room are making more and more sense all the time.
This wholesale ripping out of the former lean-to roof, as well as the former flat-roof that's out of shot round the corner at the end of the room to the left, has allowed a thorough inspection of the structure of the third roof. Which is beginning to fall into the category of "things I'd rather I didn't know about".
Let us take exhibit A, the steel sub-structure. There are three uprights along the right-hand wall, spanned along their tops by a long beam. Well, sort of. There isn't one long beam, there are two which are kind of welded together in the middle. Kind of.
Attached to this structure is the wooden frame of the walls. Well, when I say attached...
Each upright is equipped with splendid big bolt holes (highlighted above, for your convenience) for the very purpose of attaching wooden frames to the steel. And yet, our entire timber frame is attached to the steels with glue. Or perhaps silicone sealant. Hard to say. Perhaps it's the slime trail from an alien slug. At the moment, anything's possible.
Now that we've established that the steel frame is not exactly structurally sound, we could move on to consider the roof itself. Which is held up on the steel frame. Here we go, here's one of the main roof beams, resting on the wall. (Unlike the lean-to roof, mentioned previously, the main roof beams do rest on the walls.)
I admit, amongst the profusion of random pieces of timber, you may be struggling to work out what's going on. To help you out, I've marked on the next photo just how much of the main roof beam is actually resting on anything.
And just in case we hadn't found enough things to laugh at, once the ceiling and roof of the lean-to had come out, we discovered a new item to point and laugh at.
Here we are, looking at what was originally the external wall of the house. There seems to be something grey and white and black running across the back wall. What can it be?
Why, yes! It is a waste-water pipe. It turns out to be the waste pipe from a washbasin upstairs. It runs under the floorboards, springs out of the back wall (formerly hidden above the lean-to roof) traverses the house and exits out of the side wall and down into the drain. And it's held together with gaffer tape. That well known plumbing sealant. Which means this job just got a little bit bigger and will now involve asking the builders to do some additional work upstairs to decommission this particular pipe. Yay.
At least it's not boring round here at the moment. What was that Chinese curse? May you live in interesting times...
I was chatting to a friend outside school the other day, and commented on the fact that the ceiling had been taken down. To my surprise she said, "Well I hope they're putting it back up again." I realised at that point that perhaps I had not outlined the full scope of what was happening to the house. In short, about a third of the downstairs area is being completely demolished, new foundations, floors, walls, doors and windows put in. Oh, and they might have to take the roof off and put it back on again as well.
To get your eye in, here's a picture from before they started, and the end of today...
 | |
| Empty and ready for action |
The only really notable thing about the above photograph is the abominable tongue-and-groove sloping ceiling that I've spent nineteen years hating.
 |
| At least the ceiling's gone. |
This wholesale ripping out of the former lean-to roof, as well as the former flat-roof that's out of shot round the corner at the end of the room to the left, has allowed a thorough inspection of the structure of the third roof. Which is beginning to fall into the category of "things I'd rather I didn't know about".
Let us take exhibit A, the steel sub-structure. There are three uprights along the right-hand wall, spanned along their tops by a long beam. Well, sort of. There isn't one long beam, there are two which are kind of welded together in the middle. Kind of.
 |
| Can you see the welds? Me neither |
Attached to this structure is the wooden frame of the walls. Well, when I say attached...
 |
| I wonder what these bolt holes are for? |
Now that we've established that the steel frame is not exactly structurally sound, we could move on to consider the roof itself. Which is held up on the steel frame. Here we go, here's one of the main roof beams, resting on the wall. (Unlike the lean-to roof, mentioned previously, the main roof beams do rest on the walls.)
 |
| Problem? What problem? |
 |
| Oh, that problem! |
And just in case we hadn't found enough things to laugh at, once the ceiling and roof of the lean-to had come out, we discovered a new item to point and laugh at.
 |
| The original external wall of the house |
 |
| Secret surprise |
At least it's not boring round here at the moment. What was that Chinese curse? May you live in interesting times...
Thursday, 8 November 2018
A new adventure
So... this is currently happening in the Bear household:
Which is to say, we have finally faced up to the realities of the terrifying incompetence of the previous owner, and are having a large section of the house Properly Dealt With. We have, or perhaps used to have, an extension. It is hard to describe without the aid of diagrams quite the nature of the extension, and I do know how you all love diagrams. Sadly, I can't quite be bothered to draw diagrams for you tonight, so I shall try and paint a word picture instead.
Our house is moderately old, built ninety years ago, originally without indoor plumbing. Sometime in the reasonably-distant past, a solidly-built, flat-roofed, single-storey extension was added, containing a bathroom. Some time later, some half-wit added a lean-to extension up against the side of this first extension. The second extension, being a lean-to, had a sloping roof. Despite the rather ad hoc, and temporary, nature of this extension, it still struck the next owner, Mr Bodge-It, as a good idea to put a large pitched roof over the whole lot. So we have two roofs on our extension(s). Which is nice.
Over the years, the lean-to part of the extension has gradually become colder, and draughtier, and damper, and generally less pleasant to be in. So we now have a lovely firm of builders here, essentially ripping it down and starting again. Not least because in their first exploratory dig they discovered that the lean-to didn't actually have foundations, and the steels that were "supporting" the roof were gradually slumping and sinking, as could perhaps have been predicted given we live in the fens, and there was nothing but mud beneath them.
Now that the builders have started work properly, they are enjoying the same experience that every workman I have engaged goes through. They are discovering the handiwork of Mr Bodge-It. Personally, I've almost lost the ability to be surprised by the things that he did to the house. I smiled happily when the gas man wanted to take photographs of the old gas fire installation to send to his professional trade magazine, on the grounds he'd never seen anything so awful. I carefully removed the green/yellow wiring used for a live supply to an outdoor light. I gently shrug when I open the central doors of the fitted wardrobe and find a chimney inside it, and no actual cupboard space.
I find a certain frisson of entertainment to watching the reactions of professional tradesmen when they investigate our house. I got home yesterday to be confronted by Mr Builder, asking me, "Do you know what was holding the roof onto the walls?"
It came as little surprise to me to be told that the answer was "almost nothing." In fact, Mr Builder wafted something that looked like a particulary long and thin Viennetta*. It was in fact silicone sealant, and Mr Builder was so astounded by it that he wanted to take it home to show his wife. That's quite some silicone.
Today, sadly, I was home after they'd finished work, which did not prevent me getting a certain vicarious thrill from the things that they'd discovered during the day. I may, occasionally, be a little old-fashioned. A little bit tied to tradition. But there are times when I can't help but feel that sticking with the "traditions" of building regulations and basic mechanical engineering principles is a good idea. Take, for example, the tedious habit of only burying mains wiring in a wall in perpendicular lines. Wires should run up-down or left-right. That's just how it is. I can only imagine how much fun Mr Electrician had finding and digging out this cable run:
Meanwhile, the ceilings have come down, to reveal the structure of the lean-to roof. Again, call me old-fashioned, but I generally find that if I want to span from one wall to another with a roof beam, the ideal way to do it is to rest the beam on top of the wall. That way all the lovely forces of gravity are transferred into the wall directly. An alternative method, I suppose, if you were more of a free-thinking artist, would be to screw the beams end on into the top of the walls, ensuring the full weight of the roof is taken on a handful of screws.
The best bit about all this is we've only just got to the end of the second day. Imagine how much more there still is to discover! What fun!
On a more serious note, every one of these horrors that is found utterly vindicates our decision to Get It Done Properly. The extension wasn't just "a bit draughty", it was heading into the downright dangerous territory, and we are Doing The Right Thing in starting almost from scratch rather than applying another layer of bodge on top. I may not be quite so jolly as the windows, doors, walls and roofs come down and November bleeds into December. Now, where's that hot-water bottle...?
* Viennetta is a peculiarly English variation on ice-cream, once considered the height of sophistication.
Which is to say, we have finally faced up to the realities of the terrifying incompetence of the previous owner, and are having a large section of the house Properly Dealt With. We have, or perhaps used to have, an extension. It is hard to describe without the aid of diagrams quite the nature of the extension, and I do know how you all love diagrams. Sadly, I can't quite be bothered to draw diagrams for you tonight, so I shall try and paint a word picture instead.
Our house is moderately old, built ninety years ago, originally without indoor plumbing. Sometime in the reasonably-distant past, a solidly-built, flat-roofed, single-storey extension was added, containing a bathroom. Some time later, some half-wit added a lean-to extension up against the side of this first extension. The second extension, being a lean-to, had a sloping roof. Despite the rather ad hoc, and temporary, nature of this extension, it still struck the next owner, Mr Bodge-It, as a good idea to put a large pitched roof over the whole lot. So we have two roofs on our extension(s). Which is nice.
Over the years, the lean-to part of the extension has gradually become colder, and draughtier, and damper, and generally less pleasant to be in. So we now have a lovely firm of builders here, essentially ripping it down and starting again. Not least because in their first exploratory dig they discovered that the lean-to didn't actually have foundations, and the steels that were "supporting" the roof were gradually slumping and sinking, as could perhaps have been predicted given we live in the fens, and there was nothing but mud beneath them.
 |
| Failing to find foundations |
I find a certain frisson of entertainment to watching the reactions of professional tradesmen when they investigate our house. I got home yesterday to be confronted by Mr Builder, asking me, "Do you know what was holding the roof onto the walls?"
It came as little surprise to me to be told that the answer was "almost nothing." In fact, Mr Builder wafted something that looked like a particulary long and thin Viennetta*. It was in fact silicone sealant, and Mr Builder was so astounded by it that he wanted to take it home to show his wife. That's quite some silicone.
Today, sadly, I was home after they'd finished work, which did not prevent me getting a certain vicarious thrill from the things that they'd discovered during the day. I may, occasionally, be a little old-fashioned. A little bit tied to tradition. But there are times when I can't help but feel that sticking with the "traditions" of building regulations and basic mechanical engineering principles is a good idea. Take, for example, the tedious habit of only burying mains wiring in a wall in perpendicular lines. Wires should run up-down or left-right. That's just how it is. I can only imagine how much fun Mr Electrician had finding and digging out this cable run:
 |
| An unorthodox approach to mains wiring |
Meanwhile, the ceilings have come down, to reveal the structure of the lean-to roof. Again, call me old-fashioned, but I generally find that if I want to span from one wall to another with a roof beam, the ideal way to do it is to rest the beam on top of the wall. That way all the lovely forces of gravity are transferred into the wall directly. An alternative method, I suppose, if you were more of a free-thinking artist, would be to screw the beams end on into the top of the walls, ensuring the full weight of the roof is taken on a handful of screws.
 |
| Can't think why the roof is sagging, can you? |
On a more serious note, every one of these horrors that is found utterly vindicates our decision to Get It Done Properly. The extension wasn't just "a bit draughty", it was heading into the downright dangerous territory, and we are Doing The Right Thing in starting almost from scratch rather than applying another layer of bodge on top. I may not be quite so jolly as the windows, doors, walls and roofs come down and November bleeds into December. Now, where's that hot-water bottle...?
* Viennetta is a peculiarly English variation on ice-cream, once considered the height of sophistication.
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