Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Butt Crack Nirvana No More (or "Please Can I Have My Life Back?")

The men with the cavernous butt cracks are long gone but the devastation remains.

The tidiest my living room has been since April.

In the wake of Plumber Dave, Electrician Tony, Plasterer Gav, and disappearing cat Geoff, I am finally left with a ready-to-go upstairs and a house-in-a-box-to-go-back-upstairs downstairs. Beat that for smut, Scarlet.

When Girly of Whirly and I first purchased Whirl Towers in 2001, we had no idea what we were letting ourselves in for. It looked fine on paper, but the moment we moved in we realised all too many substantial structural parts of it were made of precisely the same stuff.

The previous owner, it seems, was a Kwik Fix B&Q DIYer whose collapsible structures have presented themselves with the same shock horror frequency as the irritatingly unrelenting weekly drops of granny porn junk mail bearing his name. Fortunately, he died a couple of years ago, the miserable fucking bastard.

Take, for instance, the garden wall we demolished the year after we arrived.

‘I’d better ask Dad what to do,’ I said to Girly of Whirly, ‘just in case I hit a gas main or wreck the foundations.’

Dad, bless him, duly appeared. ‘Christ almighty, who put this up?’ He was 62 then, but he had the whole six metres of brickwork over with a couple of swift kicks.

Take also the facial expression of the electrician, summoned to investigate the dicky wiring in the attic. If its shock horror rictus could have been weaved into a fabric, Vivienne Westwood would have worn it up her fanny to Malcolm McLaren’s funeral. ‘You’re lucky the place hasn’t burned down,’ he texted.

And what about the cupboard for the hot water tank removed by Plumber Dave? The one miraculously held up by itself like some Andrex bog roll house of cards?

Or that chimney? ‘Are your neighbours insured for walking up and down your shared passage?’

The car engine buried in the garden by the pond of decaying toads?

I could go on, but to do so would invite nightmare vexations that only an Arnie of the Will could survive.

All that matters is that I’ve just about reached the finishing line: the moment when I can lug boxes back to hither and whither; set to with all things set down, piled in heaps.

I am as blogger vermin, sprayed with distracting anti-blogroll visitation fluids and pumped full of the urge to utter, splutter, rage of naught but pain, strife, toil, and — actually, Electrician Tony had a very alluring bum crack into which my beguiled attention deposited itself like some wishfully pan-universal nugget of currency. But that’s another story, for another day.

Doubtless, I’ll continue to be Mr Infrequent Posts Kind Of A Guy (Yet Still Very Good With Small Animals) for a few weeks yet, but August promises to be a Jovian wobb-out, so don’t meander too far from here. I may just re-inhabit this place like some kind of weird leopard.


Old Kitty said...

My significant other's house collapsed around him because the guy he bought it off from was probably related to the previous owner of your Towers. It wasn't fun and smoke still emanates from his ears whenever I see him and ask "how's the house?".
So I feel your pain by proxy.
I hope you've found Geoff!!! Take care

Scarlet Blue said...

You make excellent use of your shared passage, Mr whirly!
Anyhow, seems like many of us have bought property from this DIY family from hell. I've also recieved the ‘You’re lucky the place hasn’t burned down,’ text from an electrian.... but what the hell was the buried car engine all about?

Scarlet Blue said...

Apologies... appalling spelling.

fairyhedgehog said...

One of my most dreaded phrases when looking round houses was "I know it's done right 'cos I did it myself".

Robin S. said...

Oh Good Lord - sorry about the hassles! And see ya on the flip side.

ril said...

You’re lucky the place hasn’t burned down...

When heard from an electrician, at least there is hope of a successful, if financially challenging, rectification in the not too distant future.

When heard from the postie on your first morning in the new home, that's when you know you've picked the wrong house in the wrong neighborhood.

Whirlochre said...

Old Kitty
The Crap DIY gene stems from the incest of imbeciles.

Fortunately it wasn't buried with the driver.

Flighty Hedge Beast
Some people would attempt their own boob job.

There's a flip dide to all this? Yippee!