I am so excited by my new loo seat for the downstairs cloakroom. It is a thing of beauty, handmade from solid oak and wonderful to the touch – clearly I won’t be rubbing my hands and caressing it once it’s in place but for now it’s resting on the loo in the middle of the living room and I just love it.
Oak throne seat
In my old flat the biggest wrench was leaving behind the big Victorian windows that adorned my living room and kitchen. I would look at properties and write them off because they didn’t have ‘the windows’.
‘The windows’ from my previous flat
Being a tad impetuous I decided to buy the windows below on Ebay, even before I’d found my house.
This is where it gets a bit crazy.. my original flat had a lovely big garden where I intended to store the windows.. however the windows came in one very large frame and as my flat was part of a Victorian terrace there was no way I would be able to carry the frame through the house and to the back garden. I paid the Ebay seller a small fee for time wasting and then forgot about them.
Not long after I found my house in Wally. I checked Ebay to discover the seller had been let down by another buyer and so they were for sale again. So I bought them for a second time. When we went to collect them she had also failed to realise that they were too big to remove from her garden, luckily a friendly neighbour allowed us to dismantle his gate to get them out.
At Wally the terrace issue raised it’s head again but my new neighbour very kindly allowed us to take down part of his fence and we were able to cut through his garden to get to mine. The windows spent the winter languishing under tarpaulin.
The hole in the wall waiting to receive
Now the tragedy is that windows were actually too tall to fit in the space, being part of a terrace meant that raising the roof wasn’t an option. We also considered lopping a great chunk off the bottom but this would have meant the doors would no longer effectively be doors as they would be too short to walk through without bending down.
After much wringing of hands I conceded that the window running along the top of the frame would have to go. The builder putting the window in just kept telling me to throw them away and get new windows, the dreaded PVC.
It seems everyone is ripping out these windows and replacing them with the PVC bi-folds but they just remind me of the old ‘ranch sliders’ – the sliding doors that became the rage in the eighties. Granted they let in a lot of light but I’m not convinced that they altogether suit small Victorian properties.
The windows should be in by today so I am waiting nervously to see how they will look, my biggest fear is whether they will let in enough light.
The first part of the frame has gone in!
They’re in!
That early bit of spring-time sun always makes you think of the garden. In this house I knew I had one but since moving here in September it has been ignored or used as a dumping ground for building materials. It didn’t really have much going for it, unless you like mountains of ivy.
All along I’ve thought the garden is the not a priority. If I have any money left at the end of this renovation then perhaps the garden can benefit from it. At least that was the plan until I realised that when I knocked the kitchen wall out and put the windows in, I would be gazing out at it, or put another way it would be glaring in at me.
So yet another workstream has begun. After all, half the purpose of having a room that looks out to the garden is about having a garden worth looking at. It’s taken four men two days to more-or-less clear it. They uncovered two butler sinks, one of which was home to a frog. I felt sorry for the poor fellow losing his home like that. I only hope he managed to hop away safely to a new residence.
Despite constantly pulling out the tape measure I’m always surprised by the size of things in real life once delivered. So when the new (reclaimed) doors were strapped to the roof of car I had to wonder whether I’d been looking at the wrong measurements. Apart from being incredibly heavy they seemed huge.
But once propped up against the wall they seemed more or less normal
The doors had been stripped and as they will be doors to the exterior they will need to be painted. On the outside they will be green but on the inside I am still slightly unsure as whether to leave them as is or to paint.
This is them from the outside – ignore the orange this just masking tape. They are currently in Fired Earth’s Wild Olive but I’m struggling a little bit with the underlying yellowness of this green so they may end up being Farrow and Ball’s Caulke Green. Like Little Bear said they will need lots of layers of paint on the outside so it’s not a complete waste.
Ebay for the most part has been a friend during this development but I have bought some doozies… I try not to think about those objects too much. The sorry article usually finds its new home is in my bin or if it’s lucky in a box in an attic. Sometimes you have to take a gamble and act on a hunch, one that says yes, I’m going to look great at your place. One of those hunches is winging its way down from North Yorkshire as we speak. I bet my builders can’t wait. The things they hate the most are typically the things I adore – basically anything preceeded with reclaimed, antique or original.
Reclaimed brass taps for the downstairs cloakroom.
The writings been a bit sporadic this year. After Christmas there was a bit of a lull. I changed builders, I went on holiday which far from being a bad idea, is actually essential during a long development. Living and sleeping in the dusty environs had left me with an unshakable cold which turned out to be a sinus infection. Relentless breathing of dust it turns out isn’t terribly good for you.
Anyway my house is covered in murky brown stuff, thick and lumpy. After a bit of investigation online which presented the most polarised of views from those who say leave well alone, the render is there to hide something terrible – to those of marvellous transformation.
Well after a very short period of deliberation I decided the brown-stuff had to go. Whenever I showed people a picture of my house the first comment would be – what are you going to do about the brown stuff? Followed by, what actually is it?.
It’s work in progress but in my uniformed opinion it’s all looking pretty promising.
So up went the scaffolding
and then the curtain, which in my head I assumed was something to do with the big reveal – obviously something from reality TV has seeped into my psyche. But actually this was just to stop the dust from flying into neighbouring properties.
And now in about two weeks time I shall see the final result…but as I said things are already looking rather promising.. a sneaky peek
Entrance before
Entrance now
I now have two weeks to decide what colour the masonry and window sills are going to be…
I once had a flatmate from Japan who told me she found it strange that we mostly lived in second hand houses. Personally I’ve always preferred the character of old houses and while appreciating the clean splendor of modern builds, I couldn’t imagine living in one – unless of course it was coupled with an expansive ocean view or verdant greenery.
When I moved in I was aware that there was a bit of junk in the attic but having filled the place with my own junk I wasn’t in a hurry to delve into anymore boxes than I had to. In recent weeks the personalities of the previous inhabitants have started to emerge.
The house was built around 1850 as servant quarters to a large manor house that has since been turned into a municipal building and from what I understand my property has not changed hands too many times since. So here are some snapshots from the attic, starting with something grizzly from the 70’s…
Less said about these the better.
What I found next was entirely fascinating and had me musing about how bereft we should feel about the loss of letter writing and printed photos. I found a little cache of letters which I have only briefly looked at but none-the-less felt charmed by the writers hand and the civility with which the correspondents addressed each other.
This letter is dated 8 December 1940, the person explains how she has moved away from Southampton as it’s been bombed and most of the shops are gone. The writer explains that the town is destroyed and that all their windows and doors were blown in, and for twelve nights they had very little sleep.
The latest find however is a clothes dryer, I have no clear idea of it’s age I guess it could be from any time from the late 1800’s onwards but I’m going to find a suitable place in the house to resurrect it. I’ve waxed it and little bear made a minor repair. The wood has come up very nicely, the pulleys are still in working order, it’s really just the ropes that will need replacing as they are layered in ancient dirt.
After weeks of dust and disruption, where every day starts with the arrival of the builders, I was looking forward to spending louche days in pyjamas. I pictured wine, box sets and lengthy baths and well-needed time away from the day job. But I knew I was never going to relax in a space that was shrieking for attention. So just before Christmas we pulled out all the stops to create a small space that gave the eyes a rest from the repetitive evaluation of the fixtures and fittings and lack thereof. A mist coat was applied to the bare plaster walls, floors were mopped and the old decommissioned bathroom was turned into huge cupboard where we hid all the building detritus.
With just days to spare, two wonderful things happened. The stonemason appeared and fitted the fireplace and my builder plumbed in my new oven. Though I’d already made alternative arrangements for Christmas dinner it was amazing to be able to bake and roast over the holidays. Even making cheese on toast seemed like a wonderful treat. One of the best things about this project has been learning to appreciate every aspect of modern living anew.
A young friend stops by and gets the best seat in the house.
Before
I’ve been going to bed and fantasizing about paint colours every night for weeks. It seems for the last few years everyone has been painting their walls grey. My last living-room was grey and even the property developers on the place next door have painted every room grey so it feels like time to move on, but what to? While browsing the annals of Pinterest I came across a pond green bathroom. I rather like murky colours and when contrasted with the crisp white porcelain it seemed an invigorating combination. So I took to the unfinished bathroom with a tester pot, it was scary and I wasn’t sure, so I emptied the whole tester pot on the wall and still wasn’t sure. Clearly I am going to have to go the whole way.
The colour, the movement of the fabric.
The inspiration
Tentative dipping of the toe…
I’ve been camping inside my own house for a little while now. It’s had tremendous highs, 
little-bear creates-seafood-extravaganza-on-two-ring-electric-hob and vicious lows, large-slug-climbs- up-drain-into-bathroom-basin (and refuses to exit).
The advice from everyone was create a room in the house that’s comfortable and clean, a retreat from the building site that is currently my home. I’ve now had several little bedsits within my house and no sooner do I become comfortable, I am moved on by the building juggernaut, typically plastering, which introduces a wet earthy smell to the house and covers my whole world with a thin layer of dust and mud. But there have been two glorious things both utterly primal (the reinstatement of broadband was just merely nice by comparison) and that’s fire and water.
Let’s start with the fire – amazing! In my living room the original Victorian fireplace had been removed but the chimney remained and was clearly just begging to be lit. What I didn’t know was that sometimes they have a little shelf inside that they close to stop heat escaping so yes the room became a bit OK a lot full of smoke but once that little error was remedied it was frankly beautiful.
And the bath. Well up until now I’d made do with a glorified lean-to and hose. Enter the bear and friends, yes the walls hadn’t yet been built nor was there a means to drain the bath but they managed to tap into the water supply and create an oasis. I had my best bath of my life on the first floor landing.
Today is one of those bad days where the dust, the mess and the persistent company of builders feels like an insurmountable weight. Today I caved over the positioning of a light-switch. On screen it seems terribly insignificant but right now I feel that rolling over to the builder’s opinion may serve as a permanent plastic monument to a moment of weakness.
Last week I instructed the builder not to erect a partition wall until I could get home and approve its width – fast forward two hours and I arrive home to find five feet of wall, thirty centimetres too wide. He had decided that he understood what I wanted and progressed anyway. It took so much courage to tell him to take it down but I managed and felt the happy surge of relief when my instructions were followed. But here we are just a few days later and I buckled on the light switch and now I will have to live with it. Granted there are definitely times when builder-knows-best but this wasn’t one of them. This was an aesthetic choice and I should have stood my ground. It was the equivalent of letting your Dad choose what kind of shoes you should wear.
I’ve been having these little wars of attrition throughout the project and it’s led to several little compromises on ‘the vision’. A little bear reminded me today that I am paying him and not to be bullied but sometimes while juggling the things of life, work, and this project something gives and today it was the light-switch.
Renovation is full relentless decision making. Little ones like; what type of light switch do I want? medium sized ones like should the bedroom door open to the left or the right? And huge ones like should I knock my two receptions together?
I’ve decided after much prevarication to partially knock out the wall between the two reception rooms. My first thought was to keep them separate, the first would be a living-room; sofa, TV etc and the second a home-office , books, writing desk, day bed perhaps. But then I realised that actually I was designing a room for the life I wished I had. The fantasy where I carry out a job I love that pays really well and allows me to work from home sitting at my beautiful desk, gazing out of the double doors and into a well cultivated garden.
The reality is that I work in an office 9-5, five days a week and that beautiful study would end up a dusty relic. The problem with un-used rooms is they end up becoming big storage areas for anything and everything. I had one of those in my last property and I would occasionally think wow I haven’t been in that room for six weeks and the dust would grow like tumble-weed.
The inspiration below
With wall
Without wall
So this is the new horizon,instant pro there is now light from both sides, so far there aren’t any obvious cons. I will need to buy more furniture to fill the new space but that is really a pro. The hideous window at the back will be replaced by something suitably Victorian. The only question is around the fireplace.. the previous owners removed the chimney breast and I’m wondering whether to restore it.
After six months of looking I finally found what I really wanted. It wasn’t the first house I really wanted but when I got it, it made sense of all the near misses. The places I had wringed my hands and cursed my luck over now seemed like a lucky escape and somehow part of a divine plan if you believe in that sort of thing.
The very first house I went to see was a beautiful, a dilapidated Victorian laden with untouched original detail. She was a fallen queen that needed restoration, attention and preservation and I believed it was the task for me (after-all we were simpatico).
Having recently ended a long term relationship I was ready for a fresh start and a new project. No children, no partner it was an opportunity to forge a new beginning and challenging enough to demand my full attention and lead me away from the sofa, box sets and large glasses of wine.
At the open day I was surrounded by couples jockeying for position on the doorstep, as if somehow the first person through the door won the prize. There was a lady with her young baby strapped to her chest who hovered in doorways glaring as if to say what are you all doing in my house. There were others with tape measures checking if their belongings would fit and couples schmoozing the estate agent acting like it was all in the bag. I would like to say this passive aggressive posturing didn’t affect me but it did. After-all they were all young couples looking for a family house and there was me, my confidence was so shaky I didn’t even make an offer.
Oh I adored this house it was the first viewing in Wally (Walthamstow). This house was a beautiful three bedroom house and unlike house one it was fully restored. The owners had great taste and the fact that the husband was a joiner meant the kitchen was something to behold. The ‘I need a project’ idea sailed right out of my head. I didn’t need a project all I needed was this house. I could change the curtains paint a few rooms and then relax. The desire for this property was so great that I put in an offer 30K over the asking price, I was so certain I would win it and I didn’t.
This one was the worst experience of all. It was small but perfectly formed and on a lovely street. It was the smallest house I’d viewed and smaller than the flat I was selling but friends reassured me that it was right for me. Why did I need a big house – no children, no partner why saddle yourself with the upkeep of a large house. After-all they said, the seller seemed perfectly content and they were a family of three. Surely this was enough house for a single woman.
I viewed it three times and should have listened to that inner voice but I was persuaded and put in a healthy offer to avoid a repeat of house two. The offer was accepted and instead of feeling wonderful about it the doubts grew and grew until the next day I was literally a quivering, crying wreck. This isn’t the one I whimpered, this feels like a compromise, a house where the future is written and that future is small and very boring. I felt as if I’d just promised to buy a bed in retirement home.
Needless to say the next day I wrote a very apologetic letter to the owner explaining that the property wasn’t right for me. What I got in return was an ignorant, vicious rant I guess her dreams were also predicated on my offer. A week later her little house was under offer again so I guess her lopsided mask of civility could go back on.
There were many more houses viewed after this but no offers were made until I turned up on the worst day of the summer in a run-down property in Wally. The windows were rotten, the proportions bizarre (more about this later) but there was just something about it.
The outside was rendered in something that looked like slurry, windows were missing and the walls and ceilings told War and Peace in braille. This house for better for worse was going to be mine.
The purchase process was of course long and tedious and often too infuriating to mention so I will fast forward to moving in day. Completion on the house coincided with my first day in a new job. Of course it did. I was just glad that no one died or at least no one I knew. It was of course hugely stressful and I had toyed with the idea for about 30 seconds of staying with friends until the house was a bit more habitable.
This was an adventure and about as close to a camping experience that I was going to get. In fact, it was better than camping, there was running water (cold) and no spiders. The elderly resident had put polythene over nearly every window which brilliantly meant spiders couldn’t get in but less brilliantly neither could stale air. The house was also hugely damp due to broken guttering, broken windows, broken timbers, broken boiler, broken floorboards – you get the picture everything was pretty much broken and I felt really happy because I wasn’t broken I was on the mend.
A kind friend in the form of a little bear popped round on the second weekend with a couple of bottles of very good wine, a lobster, scallops and king prawns. He cooked an outstanding dinner on a two ring electric hob because you guessed it the oven was broken. This seafood banquet has become something of an (albeit expensive) institution.
So that’s the back story.
Moving to Wally 