In which we get a few steps closer to Settling In

 

My mother moved into the annex flat this week. (No jokes, sorry, she reads this blog.) She didn’t have to suffer the legacy of the Dirty Dentists  (we’d had her flat cleaned), but they still did their best from The Beyond to disrupt her moving in, with washing machine plumbing that was in a separate cupboard and too far for the hoses to reach, and a fridge mains plug that was in front of, rather than behind, the fridge space so the mains lead couldn’t get to it. In a moment of resonance, we experienced a similar conundrum when we finally got around to connecting our TV to the TV cable coming out of the wall in the snug (I know, I never believed in my youth I would become the kind of person who referred to a room in their house as The Snug, but to be fair it does have an ancient bread oven in the wall) and discovered it has no signal. There is an aerial atop the roof, and a cable snaking down the wall, but they don’t seem to be talking to each other. I’m going to take the puppy round to defecate through the dentists’ letterbox.

Ah, the dog; that’s all you really want to hear about, I know.  She’s a week older, her coat more shaggy and her legs longer, her little face is still the kind of thing you want to gaze at. She consistently sleeps through the night and is reasonably good at amusing herself. Toilet training, however, remains an esoteric mystery to us. Every time she seems to be understanding what the pads on the floor are for, she follows up with a day of ignoring them completely. 

And then there’s the biting. You really understand why so many people change their mind about puppies once they’ve brought them home. Her little needle-like teeth will sink into hands, legs and feet with relentless vigour, notwithstanding the enviable range of chew toys lying within reach. When not biting, she can be an engaging playmate. Her current thing is to invent a game and keep the rules to herself. So you see her looking at you expectantly, poised for action, but you’re not sure whether you should be running away from her or padding towards her. I eventually worked out her “bed game”, where she goes under the bed and pokes her nose out next to where you’re standing. Your role is to walk round to the other side of the bed, whereupon she will poke her nose out near you again. This can go on for some time, but it’s exercise at least.

"She didn't mean anything by it"

The decorators finished this week. It was all rather emotional; they’ve been with us for a couple of months, working quietly and to a high standard, and in the process have been on a Hollywood-esque Hero’s Journey: at the beginning, like most decorators, they tried to talk us out of using Farrow & Ball; by the end they were converts, discussing with each other which was their favourite colour, and which room the most effective showcase (for the record, Adam went for the kitchen, while Alan preferred the snug – yes, we’re still calling it “the snug”, just to signal to visitors we are country dwelling Londoners). We shall miss them in all respects other than the anguish of having people under our roof all the time. On which note, the guttering people tell me they will be finished in another week, which only leaves the bathroom, which I know I said I wouldn’t mention again as we’re all so bored with it. 

Anyway, the bath will remain on our landing for another three weeks or so due to a global shortage of taps (who knew?). Apparently it can’t be positioned until the taps are plumbed in. We do have a toilet but the plumber didn’t tell us whether it was connected so we’re daring each other to be the first one to give it a go. A tiler arrived to tile the bathroom wall but left again as the plumber was there on his hands and knees (a similar posture to the one we adopt whenever the boss of the bathroom company rings with an update) and this apparently threatened the integrity of his skimming.

"Try and calm down, sir. So you say this started when B&Q ran out of mixer taps...?"

So I haven’t had too much of my traditional frustrating bathroom conversations this week. It was left to Helen to get sucked into the unique logic of a local furniture company when she rang to see when our bedroom furniture would arrive.

“It’s in stock.”

“Oh, right, I didn’t realise.”

“Yes it’s been in for a week.”

“Right. So why has no one been in touch to arrange –?”

“Because of the dresser.”

“The dresser…?”

“That you ordered at the same time.”

“Yes, but that’s for the kitchen.”

“You see, it’s delayed until September.”

“OK, but you could deliver the bedroom stuff.”

“We assumed you’d want it all at the same time.”

“You’ve clearly never had to live with all your clothes in unmarked boxes.”

“Well, I suppose we could deliver it. Can we get a seven tonne truck up your road?”

“       ”

I think the upshot of this was we might actually have a wardrobe by this time next week. Which means we can unpack the boxes in the bedroom, which means I might finally find my nail clippers (they weren’t important, but they sure are now. The only advantage is I can open boxes without a Stanley knife.). Somewhere hidden away is the contents of our Putney ensuite bathroom, but sadly the box labelling system used by the removal people doesn’t cut it. Everything is “bedroom” or “misc” or “last bits”.

I did at least get my hi fi up and running, and get my vinyl onto a shelf without Helen telling me to put it away again. Also in the music corner of the lounge, a collection of 78s once belonging to my parents, and a vintage Bush record player to play them on. A mystery that bothered me as a child, and still troubles me, is how a stackable record player knows it has records in its stack. Start it with nothing there and it just clicks a couple of times and the playing arm reseats itself. Put a record on top of the spindle, move the retaining arm across, start the record player, the record drops down and the playing arm moves precisely to the starting point. Perhaps someone could write in and let me know. 

The first album I played after setting everything up, for those who care about these things, was “Look Sharp” by Joe Jackson. It has an edgy combination of self pity and elation which rather suits the weeks following a house move. I’ll let you know what mood music I end up playing next week.