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.