No, it’s not a euphemism, but it probably should be. I’ve actually got actual builders actually in. 
They’re currently fitting an actual kitchen. They’ve actually been fitting it since last week and it’s been doing my head in, actually.
Look, there they are, in that picture. See the mess? See the devastation? See where they’re standing? There used to be a wall there.
You’re probably wondering why I’m whining about this on my blog. After all, it’s meant to be a writing blog, isn’t it? Well, technically, yes. But it’s also my blog and I’ll write about what I want. Anyway, this is about writing. So shut up and keep reading.
Having the builders in is not something I’ve been looking forward to. I’ve had them in before and I didn’t like it, not one bit. It made me pull this face:
That’s me looking not happy, that is. Notice the downward turning mouth and the lack of any sort of hat? That’s how you know I’m not happy.
So next time you see me looking like that you can say, “Look, there’s Mr Uku. He’s not happy. You can tell by his downward turning mouth and lack of hat.”
And yet, I still manage to look strangely handsome. Not everyone can pull that off you know. I’m just one of those naturally good looking people who can look gorgeous and sad at the same time. I’m like a male Winona Ryder.
The reason I’ve got a face on is not just because of the upheaval, after all the fitters are only working in the kitchen. But having a home full of strangers has stopped me from doing the stuff I normally do. And I’m only now realising how important that stuff is to my writing.
Like the rest of you, if I spent my whole day sat in front of the laptop, I’d go spare. So in order to stay sane(ish) I entertain myself in a variety of ways.
I stare out the window. I sing. I dance. I talk ideas over out loud to sound them out. I yell obscenities at idiots on the TV, radio and interwebs. I play odd music from my odd music collection. I dress up. I pace about the flat. Anything to help move the day along and keep my brain fresh.
But these builders have taken over so much of the flat that I can’t do any of that stuff without looking like a weirdo. They already think I’m odd because for the whole time they’ve been here all they’ve seen me do is sit in front of a computer. They clearly think I do nothing all day while they sweat and whistle. If I try to explain, I get looks of pity. Bloody builders.
Half of my kitchen is in my living room, the other half is in my bedroom. There is plaster and heavy duty cling-film everywhere. I can’t get to my window to stare out of it. I can’t sing, dance or yell obscenities without looking odd. I can’t hear my odd music over the constant whistling. I can’t get to my dressing-up box. And I can’t pace about without falling over furniture, builders or the contents of my cupboards.
No kitchen means no bacon or cheese on toast. I’ve had to get up at 7am every morning which is just awful. Worse, I’ve been unable to take my usual afternoon nap. What’s the point of working at home if you can’t have a bit of a kip?
To me, routine is vital to my writing. It’s like I have to-do list in my head that I tick off throughout the day. I feel lost if things don’t happen when I expect them to and if I’m unable to do the things I normally do, well, you may as well lock me in a cupboard. It’s not really that different to losing your special writing pen or Moleskine, is it?
I need to feel comfortable in my writing space.
Everyone keeps telling me, it’ll all be worth it when it’s done. And I mean everyone. There’ll be blood before the end of the week and more of it if they’re wrong.
{ 9 comments… read them below or add one }
Yeah, but it’ll be worth it when it’s done.
I have a suggestion. I know it’s a bit crazy, a bit out there, but have you considered leaving the flat? Maybe for a bit of a walk? Sit in a coffee shop? Nap in a corner of a pub like an alky?
And leave my flat full of strangers? Are you insane? Well, clearly you are. Besides, I can get perfectly drunk in the living room without the hassle of going anywhere.
Anyway, I believe you promised me a new computer and I are still awaiting it. You’re such a disappointment to a boy Miss Rosie.
I believe what I said was that I would send you a mac, and by mac I meant raincoat, and by raincoat I meant condom, and by condom I meant a specially adapted tinytiny mouseysized one. That you get made special.
I was quite specific. I clarified all those points.
Plus, you have not sent me your address. Although I do believe that if I address it to “Mr Uku, crazy man of cheshire that doesn’t leave the flat” it will get there safely.
Important note to self: if Mr Uku is ever spotted without a hat or with mouth downturned then run for distant hills (not stopping for personal belongings or pets).
On other matters: I am a bit concerned that Winona Ryder’s shopping habits may have also transferred themselves to you and, therefore, you can no longer be allowed to take your coat with the huge pockets to Tescos.
Also: is your flat enormous? were people driving fast moving machinery in your kitchen? if not I am not sure why the builder was wearing a high visibility vest.
I wondered about those high-visibility vests myself. I think it’s so I know they don’t live here. That way, I don’t muddle them with myself and get all confused as to why I’m fitting a kitchen when I know full well that I’m just awful at that sort of thing.
Regarding your point about my Big Pocketed Coat, you might be interested to know that I’ve just had a new pocket installed. It is thermal insulated so I can go “shopping” for frozen goods.
Always thinking, that’s me.
Dear Male Winona Ryder:
Suspect you will feel much better when this is proudly displayed in your new handsome kitchen: http://www.perpetualkid.com/homer-clock.aspx
xo – Bethe
PS: Do hope workmen did not expose you to plumber’s crack.
.-= Bethe´s last blog ..5 Great Garden Reads for Kids =-.
If I had seen a plumbers crack, the above photo would have been of me running away, screaming in horror. I don’t believe that any hat in the world would have cheered me up enough to get over that.
Mind you, that clock would probably do it
Having recently enjoyed the tender ministrations of a team of bathroom fitters (Don’t worry mate, it’ll only take four days. Yeah. Right!) who installed themselves in my smallest room for a fortnight, you have my most profound and deepest sympathies.
Not being able to write was bad enough, not being able to shower was…err, better not go there. I sincerelym hope by the time you read this comment that said builders are a distant memory; sorry if I’ve just brought it all flooding back.
You’re right though, having the builders in ought to be a euphamism, but not for what people think you mean…
I’m happy to report that my builders have long since slung their collective hooks. Unfortunately, I’m told that the bathroom is next on the list. If that takes a fortnight I may have to wall them up behind the shower