DiY

Lucy’s column for August 5th.
Homelo..1
Following his anti-sun, sea, sand and sangria revelations last week, when he invaded this column to set himself up as the bore of the Balearics, I have to admit that the old man has come good.
I came home from my ten-day extension – as he left Palma, the gels swooped in, and whoopee, did we party – to find the following : a garden which was lopped, chopped, watered and weeded; a garage bereft of any signs of our hoarding past; new soffits and fascia on aforementioned "sod the car – it’s storage we need" dumping unit, set off with a dinky little diamond-shaped bling-y thing-y; and an order in place for new garage doors.
And, yippee, there’s a brand new roof on the kitchen extension, to replace the leaking glass one, a move which has been number one on my nagging list for at least four years, and to which he was forced to succumb when he woke up one morning to a floating feline, watery Whiskas, distressed dishwasher, and the door-mat squelching in the region of the sink. The RubberBond roofing system – sounds a bit kinky, that - was quickly and efficiently installed courtesy of Aquarite Roofing Ltd, and proprietor Ian Hudson was round with his battens, boards and bonding before the old man could say "bail-out bucket".
Oh, and there’s a set of shiny new taps, drip-free and without the scruffy, raggy lagging round the joint, which has graced the kitchen sink for nigh on a year.
As me and my mates – Lil Bancroft, Rose and Lisa Kennedy, and Debbie Kitchen - wallowed in over 80 degrees in the shade – and there wasn’t much shade – he got what he’d craved during his week-long moan-fest of itching, scratching, sighing, sweating, in the relentless sun. He got rain. Buckets of it. And I got results.
Whether it was a sudden rush of blood to the head, or a twinge of conscience because he’d been such a holiday pooper, is anybody’s guess, but – and I never thought I’d ever say this – he’s a little star. Because the frenzied activity hasn’t stopped there. He’s created what could laughingly be called an arbour, out of a flowering shrub which grew so big for its roots it became an eye-poking health hazard, and trimmed one hedge within an inch of its life so that, if I jump up and down, I can see what the neighbours are barbecuing (and note that they’ve got a posh new shed – now there’s a thought).
Mind you, I’ve had to suffer for his art. He’s so proud of his DiY and gardening exploits that every five minutes he drags me outside, insisting I look at his handiwork. Down to a half-inch tack, he’s made sure I’ve noted every nail and screw, brush stroke, sheet of hardboard, clump of soil, and bead of sweat of this master-toiling. And each and every visitor passing through our portals do so at their peril. They suffer the same fate.
There is quite a lot more on my "do-it-before-I’m-too-old-to-appreciate-it" wish list which I hesitate to mention, but, hey, in for a penny, in for another pound of flesh : one of those driveways, with fancy bricks decorating the edges? A hot tub? A sun-trap patio where the wheely bins currently stand? A transformation of the hovel in which I now sit, which quadruples as an office, laundry room, freezer centre, and cat’s en suite?
Timing is of the essence. I’m off on my hols again soon, and have promised not to drag him along. Perhaps a whinge the week before I go might do the trick. In the meantime, though, I’ll settle for a tap which actually stops running when it’s turned off, and a water-proof roof, which is rubbery.
end