Sophie, the architect not in search of a job, came to see the house today. She was delightful, definitely a new friend, very down to earth and cheerful and very nice about the house - though clearly slightly awed by the scale of the renovation. It was positive and negative - she gave me the thumbs up about all the ideas I have for reorganising the space and loved the kitchen plan. I warmed to her even more when she asked me why we were bothering to open up the space between the main kitchen and the 'arriere cuisine'. This has been a rather fraught subject, with my parents, my friend C. and my husband united and slightly bullying in their conviction that this is indisputably an essential thing to do. I have said all along I think it's completely unnecessary but caved in finally for a quiet life. Without even being asked Sophie spontaneously said she couldn't understand the point of doing it. I explained my quiet life philosophy, and she conceded the point. Otherwise she was extremely, gratifyingly positive about everything, which was lovely - but looking at all the structural stuff it was clear she thought there might be issues. There might be indeed. My philosophy is to trust Monsieur G. who does this kind of thing, more or less, all the time; he will sweat the big stuff, while I focus on the details like tiles and kitchen units. Obviously in terms of structure there's no way I can have the slightest idea about what is going on - I can't tell the difference between a dangerous crack and a superficial fissure. I just hope he can.

Peeling layers of history

It's tempting to wonder why we didn't get out of this when we still could. The house is a quite extraordinary mess. It's not exactly derelict, it does for example still have a roof, but it's mind-boggling that people actually lived here until last October. It's layered with the filth of many decades; when I walked in for the first time with the estate agent it required a genuine leap of imagination to see beyond the dreary tobacco-coloured walls and shit-coloured lino that is covering up the beautiful oak and stone staircase.

In the last couple of days the walls in some of the rooms have been stripped back several generations to the original plaster; different wallpapers like palimpsests revealing the past lives of various rooms in the house.



My favourite is the wallpaper in our bedroom, which is the room which I fell in love with originally once I had got over the tobacco coloured walls. It's a lovely, peaceful room, airy and bright, with two floor to ceiling windows, a lovely curvaceous marble fireplace, intricate mouldings on the ceiling; long fingers of afternoon sunlight slant over the floorboards as if they were illustrating a story. The walls were patterned in a pretty pattern of rosebuds; it was certainly a lady's bedroom at some point in its history.





chambre de madame


The salon, now that the cobwebby old net curtains have been pulled down from the windows, reveals its many different characters; a rather dull black on cream repeat from the 1920s covering up a splendid midnight blue (which I stupidly didn't get a photograph of). And each layer scrawled with the notes of the builder at the time.



Most of the the last two weeks has involved the revelation of one nasty surprise after another; a radiator is removed to reveal a patch of damp wall; the dining room parquet turns out to be rotten, entire walls are literally unplastered brick. The windows are barely able to stay put in their rotten casements. But today a nice surprise - attached to a window an old projection screen, rolled up in its metal casing, in perfect condition. One day we'll be able to watch films on it. One day all this will be behind us.

Week Three

Two weeks ago we became the proud owners of a magnificent pile of bricks and mortar. It took us months of tortured negotiations with the third generation inheritors of the house to get to this stage, and even having got to the notaire's office we considered walking away when their demands and refusals became too absurd. When they categorically refused to empty the house of literally tonnes of rubbish accrued over a hundred years of ownership (all of it entirely worthless, since they had of course sold everything of any worth whatsoever that they could short of gouging out the mantelpieces and parquet) it was only thanks to the estate agent, who saw his commission dissolving before his eyes like a cheap telefilm, that we didn't get up and walk out for good.

Everytime someone comes to measure up for an estimate, whether it be for radiators or new windows (our main gesture towards environmental issues will be to insulate properly) or the expensive kitchen that I dream of having but certainly won't be able to afford, they purse their lips, whistle through their teeth (a sound I hate above any other), shake their heads and say, "Oof! Il y a du boulot la. C'est pourri la, vous voyez?". And I smile, determined not to let their patronising horror get the better of me, even when I feel like weeping. Yesterday it was the turn of a man in a jet black toupee, his eyes crinkling like Charles Aznavour in full swing, creases in his trousers sharp as a kitchen knife. Today it was the Brad Pitt look alike, all chiselled square jaw, artful stubble and leather jacket. Difference in style notwithstanding the way they shake their heads, trying to calculate (it seems to me) how much they can get away with estimating for their work so that I won't be horrified and go elsewhere - the eternal builder's conundrum of how to screw the foolish client whilst making them feel they have got a bargain - differed not a jot.

Thankfully our lovely builder, Monsieur G., manages to comfort me when I get particularly despondent. I can tell he is thinking that this is a bit early to be so despondent, and I should really save that for later when things are getting really hairy. If nothing else he always sounds pleased when I call, and tells me that there is nothing to worry about, certainly nothing to lose sleep over. If only my bloody unconscious would take heed, it is two weeks since I've slept well and whilst I'm always on the lookout for an easy and effective diet, at this rate, with at least eight months of work ahead of us, I'll have disappeared to almost nothing by the time we move in.

At the advice of my friend Avril today I called a friend of hers who sounds like the answer to my dreams - an architect who doesn't want big projects, who understands about doing things nicely on a budget, and who doesn't really want a proper job, but who is prepared to hold hands and give advice and generally act as a sounding board. They say it's impossible to improve on perfection, and thus far, she sounds absolutely perfect, but the best thing is she lives nearby and is going to come and see the house with me on Friday. Hurray. I think tonight I might sleep well, finally.