I left my house this morning, my dear, lovely, darling little loft apartment in one piece. Sadly, I will not return to it this evening to find it in the same state... You see, as I type this a team of people is stripping the paint in my bedroom, ripping up the tiles on my balcony and assaulting my shower cubicle this hammers and other implements of destruction. *sigh* This is going to be an interesting week...
Hubby and I didn't realise quite how much stuff we had accumulated over our first year of marriage until we tried to move it out of our main bedroom and squeeze it all into the spare room (the room I lived in for two years as a single girl before falling for the boy next door).
My hubby is a very persistent man and hates to be beaten, especially not by a chest of drawers! So, after playing tetris with all of our furniture and tying up the cords (for my hair dryer, our bedside lamps, and his pride and joy – a state of the art Russel & Hobbs remote controlled 'misting' floor fan) into a knot that the dude from Discovery Channel's Ultimate Survival would be proud of, he succeeded in moving us into the spare room. The fact that we have to negotiate an obstacle course every night to get into bed – and brave the same challenges in reverse to get to the kettle in the morning – makes for a pretty entertaining scene rich with physical comedy and a few choice words that would be bleeped out if we were on a reality show.
I can't say I'm loving the compact living situation, trying to get dressed is proving a bit higher grade not to mention a little X-rated at times. You see, my clothing and shoes and undergarments are the only items still safely tucked away in the main bedroom, the rest of the room has been stripped completely – and that includes the curtains. So when I climb out of the shower wrapped up like a caterpillar in a cocoon made of fluffy towels, I have to take extra care when flipping through my wardrobe and bending down to open one of the bottom drawers... I really don't need the neighbours to catch a glimpse of hail damaged and sun-starved flesh while still trying to digest their cornflakes. Can you imagine bumping into one of them the following day while taking out the rubbish or lugging groceries up the stairs? Awkard!
Anyways, my own paranoia aside, hubby and I only have to deal with paint fumes and the thud, thud, thud of plaster being chipped away for a few days. It's a little discomfort for a LOT of reward. You see, we've been trying to get the damp problem in our bedroom sorted out for a year, but because we rent we can't do anything ourselves. Every minor thing has to be approved by the rental agent who has to get a quote from a contractor who has to submit said quote to rental agent who has to get quote approved by the landlord who has to pass his approval backdown the chain until I finally have a (knock, knock) "We're here to fix the [insert issue here]"
Anyways, whenever it's rained over the past few months, the rain has pooled on our top balcony, funnelled down the wall and through the plaster into our bedroom, and then proceeded to travel along the ceiling (with uncanny precision) until causing perfectly aimed droplets of South Africa's finest to fall on mine or my hubby's forehead – depending on who is unlucky enough to be asleep slap bang in the middle of the bed. I don't think an engineer could have orchestrated such an amazing partnership between Mother Nature and a man-made rush job... it truly is quite impressive in an 'I can't believe it!' kinda way.
Let's just say I am looking very forward to humming BJ Thomas's Raindrops keep falling on my head just because I feel like it rather than as a musical commentary at 2am in the morning.
Hubby and I didn't realise quite how much stuff we had accumulated over our first year of marriage until we tried to move it out of our main bedroom and squeeze it all into the spare room (the room I lived in for two years as a single girl before falling for the boy next door).
My hubby is a very persistent man and hates to be beaten, especially not by a chest of drawers! So, after playing tetris with all of our furniture and tying up the cords (for my hair dryer, our bedside lamps, and his pride and joy – a state of the art Russel & Hobbs remote controlled 'misting' floor fan) into a knot that the dude from Discovery Channel's Ultimate Survival would be proud of, he succeeded in moving us into the spare room. The fact that we have to negotiate an obstacle course every night to get into bed – and brave the same challenges in reverse to get to the kettle in the morning – makes for a pretty entertaining scene rich with physical comedy and a few choice words that would be bleeped out if we were on a reality show.
I can't say I'm loving the compact living situation, trying to get dressed is proving a bit higher grade not to mention a little X-rated at times. You see, my clothing and shoes and undergarments are the only items still safely tucked away in the main bedroom, the rest of the room has been stripped completely – and that includes the curtains. So when I climb out of the shower wrapped up like a caterpillar in a cocoon made of fluffy towels, I have to take extra care when flipping through my wardrobe and bending down to open one of the bottom drawers... I really don't need the neighbours to catch a glimpse of hail damaged and sun-starved flesh while still trying to digest their cornflakes. Can you imagine bumping into one of them the following day while taking out the rubbish or lugging groceries up the stairs? Awkard!
Anyways, my own paranoia aside, hubby and I only have to deal with paint fumes and the thud, thud, thud of plaster being chipped away for a few days. It's a little discomfort for a LOT of reward. You see, we've been trying to get the damp problem in our bedroom sorted out for a year, but because we rent we can't do anything ourselves. Every minor thing has to be approved by the rental agent who has to get a quote from a contractor who has to submit said quote to rental agent who has to get quote approved by the landlord who has to pass his approval backdown the chain until I finally have a (knock, knock) "We're here to fix the [insert issue here]"
Anyways, whenever it's rained over the past few months, the rain has pooled on our top balcony, funnelled down the wall and through the plaster into our bedroom, and then proceeded to travel along the ceiling (with uncanny precision) until causing perfectly aimed droplets of South Africa's finest to fall on mine or my hubby's forehead – depending on who is unlucky enough to be asleep slap bang in the middle of the bed. I don't think an engineer could have orchestrated such an amazing partnership between Mother Nature and a man-made rush job... it truly is quite impressive in an 'I can't believe it!' kinda way.
Let's just say I am looking very forward to humming BJ Thomas's Raindrops keep falling on my head just because I feel like it rather than as a musical commentary at 2am in the morning.
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