The transients' diary: week 2

The scaffolding’s up around our house!

Scaffolding up. Execution next

It was a joy to behold. The contractor had to give up on the firm he chose first, the one whose lorry proved unserviceable, and even on the firm he talked to next. But then the third firm he tried came through and they did the job. Just within his timetable for doing it: he’d assured us it had to be this week.

So he’s got no excuse for not hitting his schedule, right? He said the scaffolding had to go up this week. It is up this week.

On the other hand, once they dug up the old bathroom floor, they found all sorts of ghastly stuff underneath. Rotten, it seems. Unstable. All over the place. Happens so often, though, doesn’t it? You start to fix something and you find more things to fix.

Naturally, that rather kills things as far as sticking to budget’s concerned. I just hope we can still meet the timetable...

There’s no doubt in my mind that the success so far has all been down to the encouragement Danielle provides the contractor. It’s wonderful that our temporary accommodation is only ten minutes’ walk from the house. That means she can keep popping in and checking on progress. It must be wonderful for the contractor to know that she’s doing that, and he can count on his client’s constant vigilance.

He must be so pleased.

The other reason we go round at least once a day is to see Misty, our cat. We didn’t want to bring him here, where there’s no cat flap. He’s always enjoyed being able to go in or out at his pleasure.

Catch a mouse outside? He can have a pleasant and invigorating snack.

Fail to catch a mouse outside? He can pop back in through the flap and tank up on dry food instead.

We didn’t feel we could deprive him of that so we left him at home. But it must be a bit of a dismal experience being alone so much of the time. So we go and see him, and also make sure he’s got all the food he needs.

He’s a proud and independent creature. But you can see it’s hurting him to be left alone for so long. And he's living in the shed, with his food bowls in there. Which he must feel is a bit of an indignity.

I don’t know what your problem was, but I was 
happy in the house. Look where I'm living now

The moment we show up he comes trotting over, mewing the whole time – very vocal, he’s become – and rubs himself up against us. Why, he even rubs himself up against the dogs, if we bring them around: in the good old days when we were all under one roof, he’d often get fed up with Toffee and Luci, but these days he’s pitifully happy to see them again.

All very sad.

Hang on in there, Misty! We’re working on it. Why do you think we keep the contractor under pressure? It’s only so we can get back as soon as possible, with our couch, so that all five of us can crowd onto it together to watch some gripping TV series or other.

That’s what transience is all about. Getting it over fast. Returning to normal.

“So why the heck did you move out in the first place?” I can practically hear him saying. Bitterly.

The transients' diary: week 1

It all started when we decided that it would be fun to add some space to our little house, and make it slightly less little. Convert the loft, say, so that we could have three bedrooms – and, hey, luxury, two bathrooms. And how about a bigger kitchen that led straight to the garden? That could be a lot more comfortable.

It would be inconvenient, of course. There’d be noise and dust and the place would be barely inhabitable, but that seemed a price worth paying.

“Barely inhabitable?” said the contractor with what could only be described as a guffaw. “You want to stay here while we’re working? You’re kidding, right?”

“Not a good idea, you think?”

“Listen, pal.” He may not actually have said that – we are the clients, after all, and he wouldn’t be offensive – but the sneer was there by implication. “Barely inhabitable doesn’t cover the half of it. Completely uninhabitable’s a bit closer the mark. We’re going to cut off the gas and the electricity. The water too. And we’ll be working in both bedrooms. No, no, you can forget it. Out you go, I’m afraid. For two months, till we finish.”

Homeless! We’d made ourselves homeless! In pursuit of a more comfortable home.

Oh, life abounds with amusing ironies.

Barely inhabitable

Fortunately, we had friends with a flat to let. So we moved there.

So we’re in a time of transience. Which struck me as worth documenting. If only because it’s slightly different, and therefore potentially more interesting, than mere banal normality.

Oh, wow, that’s so much easier to write than to do…

It’s surprising how much less difference there is than you might imagine, between a small temporary move, and a full-scale permanent one. That’s principally because anything we weren’t taking with us had to be boxed up, or at least covered with dust sheets, if we wanted any hope of still being able to use it when we got back. As for the things we were taking, well that was just like a normal move. We used the same great Polish company we’d already used twice before since we moved to Luton (yep: we’re one just one step away from nomadic living). We prepared and boxed everything for them to take, made sure they had everything with them, and unpacked it all at the other end.

Just as big a job after a five-minute move as after a five-hour one.

The worst bit was getting the sofa up the stairs and into the living room. Both ends had to come off. And then be put back on again. But, hey, it had to be done: it’s where the dogs like to lie during the day, and they need to feel at home in the new environment. 

Don’t they?

The next day the builders moved in. And, as usual, the first step in making the place more attractive was to make it profoundly unappealing. To turn it into a disaster area, in fact.

However, and I have to admit this a perpetual source of amazement to me, within the maelstrom of destruction something constructive began to appear. Within days, a new set of steps appeared. We don’t have our new top floor yet – for the moment, we still have a loft – but we have steps up to it.

They may not go anywhere but, hey, they’re stairs

That’s progress, isn’t it?

Naturally, progress has to pause from time to time. What project doesn’t, after all? Today I learned that the scaffolders’ lorry had failed its emission tests and needed a new engine. That won’t be fitted until Tuesday, so the scaffolding won’t arrive until later next week, instead of last week as planned. But, never fear, the contractor assures me, as long as it does come by then, work can still complete within the two-month schedule.

“The timetable stays the same, does it?” I asked him.

“Oh yes, no problem,” he said, with that nonchalant tone people always adopt when they’re trying to hide the doubts that assail them.

There might be another small problem. The daughter of one of the building workers has been having seizures – “well, she has them all the time, but you know, this time she’s in hospital” – which means her Dad has had to have time off. But the contractor’s still nonchalant about things.

Worryingly nonchalant.

Meanwhile, we’re having trouble adapting to our temporary life. As she was driving us back from badminton today, I had to remind Danielle that she needed to turn left to the flat, and not go straight on to the now uninhabitable house.

“Old habits,” she said as she wrenched the wheel around to enter the side street, “they’re difficult to break.”

That’s certainly true. Later, I took the dogs for a long walk, and didn’t wake up to what I was doing on the drive back until I found myself pulling up in front of our house instead of the flat. I, of course, don’t acknowledge my faults as readily as Danielle does, so I just pretended (to the dogs and to myself, because there was nowhere else present) that I was there deliberately, preferring to park near our house rather than in any old anonymous side street near where we’re staying – though not living.

We’re now at day 6 of our temporary exile. That means there are only 56 more days to go. The plan is to be back in our place by 15 October.

I have confidence in that date. Because the contractor has told me he’ll meet it, so what grounds have I for doubt? Contractors are people for whom it is a point of pride to perform or die, to bring a project in to budget and to schedule against any odds that society or nature throws against them.

Aren’t they?