In the past few days we’ve made a pretty big decision about something we’ve been discussing – or you may say spatting over- for a fair while now. Home improvements, anything that involves wielding a paintbrush or involves some sort of destruction and the need for face masks, really is beyond our ken. Don’t get me wrong, in theory I can imagine lovely colour schemes and tasteful decor with the best of them – just don’t expect me to take it much further than that.
Until now, that is.
Yes, on the weekend we’ve given ourselves the green light to make some changes in the living areas of our house – starting with ripping up all our tiles and carpet and replacing them with blackbutt floorboards.
This was our lounge room area at the time of our property settlement almost ten years ago (part of me is wincing when I type that. Ten years). The tiles you can just see go back into the space I’m standing in (the dining area) and back into the kitchen. There’s also a entrance way and laundry not seen here. The house was built (not by us) with lots of corner-cutting. The tiles were glued directly onto the wood below, no layering or buffering in between. So where the wood seams are, that’s where the tiles have cracked. There’s nothing wrong with the carpet that ten years of traffic – and almost seven of abuse by children – didn’t wreck. On the steps there are patches worn back to nothing.
I suppose what made us drag our heels was the knowledge that if we did this we’d be committing ourselves to an extension of time living here. The money factor, plus actually staying to enjoy the improvements, will mean our house hunting to move will be delayed (which, quietly, is okay by me).
So what’s stressful about all this? After all, people do it all the time. Well: ripping up the tiles ourselves, having the timber delivered and installed, there’s Riley’s fifth birthday, school photos, and a little something called the Aussie Bloggers Conference will all be happening over the next four-and-a-bit weeks.
Yep.
