Barry Bucknell Rides Again

‘So where does this one go?’ brandishes George.

‘According to the writing on the back,’ I suggest, (ignoring disparaging comments on people's writing), ‘It goes bnd d drs tds g.’

Clearly, it's destined for... Behind my set of drawers nearest garden end wall. Unfortunately, George has banged another skirting board back in that position - no wonder it was a tight squeeze…

Barry Bucknell would be proud, though. Not only have we painted the bedroom, but also removed skirting boards, and are now tackling their post-new-carpet replacement. George has even managed to hide wires behind these skirtings! Not bad, considering the height of our DIY before moving to France was plug-changing and car-washing.

Here, of necessity, George has: put in light fittings (the only thing left on change of ownership in France is an occasional bulb on a grotty wire), fixed curtain rails, installed new sinks, laid tiled floors… his accomplishments are manifold and staggering. (Well - I paint...). And I’m proud.

Surely the first DIY puzzlings of people our age were stimulated in infancy, when the beaming Barry Bucknell would explain how to Make Things and Then Stick Nails In Them.

http://www.whirligig-tv.co.uk/tv/adults/bucknell/bucknell.htm

(Please Do click on the picture in this link for cacophonous 10-second video of him saying Goodbye)!

For George and I, DIY is still puzzling, and something we enjoy when it’s finished.

Our painting project this time, however, was unusually fun-filled owing to imminent exchange of festering old carpet for new one. What Joy Unbounded to splosh paint around with complete disregard for the floor! (One’s joy was a bit too unbounded near the shelving, but a quick blast of nail varnish remover did the trick).

The Man came last Tuesday to fit the replacement carpet (professional job seemed sensible here), and asked with a smirk if we’d like to keep the old one. No thank you. Lord knows what lurked therein – it was in place when we arrived nine years ago and aeons before, judging from the multi-hued indelible splodges. If he could have picked it up between finger and thumb, I’m sure he would have.

Of course, paramount in DIY is the restoring to original order once the Doing is done. Hence, since Tuesday, we’ve been engaged in the reinstatement of bed, drawers, boxes, linen, clothes, shoes and tons of other bedroom bits...

Slight discord here – I’m happy to restore to the original Open-Door-and-Chuck-in kind of order for now. Whereas George can excel at organising, and this time he has indeed excelled. Shoes have been secreted into neat slide-out boxes, towels have been folded(!) onto shelves with unfrayed parts to the fore, Things hung on hangers – Verily, this is a New bedroom!

What Delight! What a Sense of Satisfaction! And WHAT can we now Stick Nails In…?

A Redder Shade of Carrot

Look – the ads show merry filmstars lounging in their dressing gowns, checking out another blockbuster script, phoning their mum, rebuilding the kitchen… all while the potion works its spell. Then they unleash bouncy, gleaming locks and rush off to Dazzle!

Even desperate people IN the films do it - Harrison Ford… Geena Davis and… others - they simply dash into some dismal bathroom and three minutes later they’re transformed! It’s easy!

Well, perhaps if my life had depended on it too… Because I found it jolly hard doing one’s own highlights. But the Hairdresser’s prices in these days of Crunch obliged me to have a go.

Daphné herself thought my efforts hilarious. When I sheepishly explained I’d put in a few blonde streaks with a kit from the supermarket she screeched, “Oh thank god – I thought my own colours had turned Yellow!”

Rather harsh, I thought. But as my hair grew to resemble the stuff our rabbits like to bed down on, I felt urged to swamp the whole lot by going back to my roots. Which were ever more apparent, anyway.

So I bought a ‘shiny cream paste’ of brown, but Burnished Mahogany brown. Easy to apply because it’s “wonderfully thick and doesn’t run.” “Be sure to use All the mixture!” urged the instructions.

I did. Suddenly I could feel it glooping down from the top of my head like freshly-cracked raw egg. (You may know that horribly realistic sensation when someone pretends with their finger-tips). (You may know the actual sensation…).

The gloop grew like some hideous palpitating thing, and it was Red. Mirror, tiles, sink, towel, T-shirt, ears, were all deep red. And according to the box, they’d stay like that for 28 washes.

How did the finished hair look? Well... quite red. Quite orange. Reddy-orange. I ventured out the next day sporting large hat and sunglasses. The day after that, though, I noticed an eerily perfect match between hair and favourite TinTin coral-tinged sweatshirt. Hang on a minute - I have clothes that go!

Now the plunge has been plunged, I feel weirdly liberated. One only has to look at Famous Redheads: Katherine Hepburn, Van Gogh, Geri Halliwell, Boris Becker and, of course, Erik the Red, who overcame neighbourhood shovel squabbles to colonise, and become Paramount Chieftain of, Greenland. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erik_the_Red

Who could fail to be inspired? And George is delighted with my renovations. I intend to sally boldly forth in coats of many colours, sparkly hairclips, feathers… for I am Proud and Boldly Burnished. And God, but I’m Lovely!

The Chainsaw of Zorro

“Hah!” shouted Hervé, swishing the air with his chainsaw, “I am Zorro!”

Indeed, he did cut a dashing dash as he bounded lightly up the trunk and positioned himself for action. George and I could but gaze in awe.

And what was he doing there? Well, our ancient and enormous cherry tree succumbed to a tempest twelve months ago, resting ever since upon the old stone wall and the log shed. Having neither machinery nor experience in felling, George and I have tried not to think about it. (Besides, I thought it looked quite attractive at that angle)…

Then one day, our hero Hervé offered to do something about it! He turned up last week brandishing an impressive electric chain saw, plus the huge petrol-powered version belonging to his brother-in-law! Plus… appropriate gloves, boots, goggles, different thicknesses of rope, an astonishing agility and an intricate knowledge of knots. (No, not Scouts - the Forces).

He secured and sliced through branches in logical order of safety, until forced to stop due to oil and petrol exhaustion. Valiantly, he came back the next day with reinforcements – his brother-in-law and an even huger petrol-powered Thing. And metal wedges and a mallet to split logs of enormitude.

The axe we proffered seemed to cause them much hilarity, being of a rather delicate construction and very blunt. SO? It works on logs for the fire…

Anyway, These two stalwart specimens have left us with a fascinating array of beautiful logs, a vat-full of sawdust for comfy cat-litter, and the inspiration to redesign the garden and to clear whatever lurks within the shed… now the roof won’t collapse on top of us.

It’s only the cats who are slightly aggrieved; since the downfall of the cherry, the gap from shed-roof to wall, and from shed-roof to ground, demands far more calculation. Is sunbathing worth all that effort?

Bring More Candles

Last night, we were half way through our pineapple yoghurts when all the lights went out. Damn! Still, these cuts don’t last long, particularly when the weather’s calm…

After a couple of minutes blundering around for a torch that worked, George went outside to see how far the blackness stretched. It didn’t stretch at all – the streetlamps were on; next door’s kitchen was dazzling… why just us?

I felt a tiny surge of resentment towards the electricity company and all those currently enjoying its full power. (In fact, quite a big surge). Despicable of me, I know, but good heavens - it doesn’t seem long since we had all that baffling work done to change our system from something called ‘Triphase’ to ‘Monophase’.

Did we even have different Phases in England-our-Old-Country? And if the dreaded Triphase presented such an urgent need for change in this house, why had the previous owners ever dallied with it in the first place? For it had certainly caused us problems, usually when just about to amaze our friends with a gastronomic delight; or if George was away and I had to negotiate the outside steps and the Stygian gloom of the cellar… alone!

Anyway, since the 'passage en monophasée' - which entailed synchronising two electrical companies’ schedules, multitudinous agonised phone calls and hand delivering several Declarations to swear we’d all do our bit, (the electricians charged with this painful task, though, were all helpful and delightful) - all has gone well. Till last night.

George went down to the cellar and sure enough, the main fuse had tripped. He reset it; thirty seconds later it went again.

Had I been alone, I would have kept resetting it until it burst into flames, such is my ability and patience with DIY. Together, we sensibly eliminated fuses three by three, until left with the tangle of plugboards and cable under the kitchen sink.

Quite a lot of which turned out to be damp, and dripping into the mouldering under-reaches of the cupboard.

So we couldn’t blame it on an electrical company.

By experimental positioning of kitchen towel we deduced that the little black overflow pipe had let go at one end, so that enthusiastic gushing of waste sink water resulted in spattering of the cupboard. For weeks, months… who knows?

To avoid alarming sizzles, George has now redirected much of the cable, and indelibly re-glued the little black pipe. And we’re airing the foul depths of the under-sink.

Which is Really Exciting for the cats - they remain on constant guard because whatever’s exuding that sort of aroma must be tastier than Kitlykat …