On seeing

It may not have escaped your notice, if indeed you have read any of my previous Musings, that my Flat and I have a precarious relationship. The reason being that I never actually intended to live in it. It was bought with my ex-husband as an investment in the time before we were exes. The first inkling of the Flat’s propensity for annoyance came even as we were renovating it. I had instructed the tiler in perhaps not minute enough detail where and in what order I wanted the tiles placed in the bathroom and so of course they ended up not where they should be. I arrived too late to intervene; they were already up. Had I been my Grandmother, I would have made him take them all down and start over. My Grandmother was the terror of Co Cork. She had a sharp eye for a straight line. No tradesman escaped without having to redo some or all of his work. But I thought to myself, “argh… ah well, I won’t be living here so I won’t have look at them.” So of course the Universe laughed and I have been here for almost six years. I have, just about, cured myself of the agony of irritation they engender. I simply do not look up. On moving in, other irritations were dealt with by judicious use of paint, although a bothersome hint of off white did manage to creep into the bedrooms. I have only just got around to banishing it. And then, poof! My orchids all decided to drop their flowers and generally became scruffy and unkempt. I asked the lady at the local garden centre what was up and she suggested that perhaps they were sulking. They never did recover from the sulks; they were joined by other plants, plants that I was reliably informed were impossible to kill. I resorted to cut flowers. After all they were dead already and so were safe from the Flat’s malign machinations.

Last year, I don’t know what came over me. I decided to move house. After a quick whizz round with the paint brush which took longer than it ought, I put the Flat on the market. It was under offer within about a month. So I had to find somewhere to move to. It was all going to be straightforward as I had taken the decision to move further out of London. I lost count of the boxes, I mean houses, that I viewed; one particularly unproductive day being the inspiration for Replicity. “Am I being unreasonable in what I want,” I wailed at the Boyfriend. “No, of course not,” he says. The Boyfriend you understand is not from around here and so does not really have a good appreciation of our vernacular architecture. Its smallness coupled with its astronomical price tag always takes him by surprise. I did, eventually, find a house with a bedroom large enough to fit my bed. And me. Not to mention the Cat. All at the same time. Lawyers were set to work. All seemed to be progressing as it should, only to be thwarted at the eleventh hour, the Flat being the major culprit but the House by no means wholly innocent. The spiral stairs to the kitchen in the Flat did not comply with building regulations and would have to be replaced. The gap between the spindles of the balustrade was too wide. “About 10 mm too wide,” said the very nice man from Building Control. Argh! Cue some frantic Googling and telephoning to locate replacement stairs that would fit. And then the survey report on the House arrived. And then other life issues intervened. There was nothing for it. I was going to be staying put.

The new, slightly wider and definitely more expensive spiral stairs arrived. In a box. All the way from Italy. With handy instructions. In Italian. After much head scratching, a deal of cursing and a few do-overs, it is finally in place. The carpet will have to be replaced, partly because it had to be cut to make way for the new stairs and partly because one of the sulking plants decided to rot it.

I took a chance and have bought new plants. So far, they are flourishing. Perhaps all the Flat wanted was to be rid of the stairs. In any case I am reminded that, to paraphrase the great Oscar Wilde, one does not really see a thing until one sees its beauty. I definitely now look at the Flat with a less jaundiced eye. I might even stay. Everything is blooming.