Recovery

Today is the first time in 11 days I wore trousers that didn’t have an elastic waistband. That, my friends, is a sign of recovery.

The other obvious signs are that I can walk at what most people call a normal stride (though I’d still say I was going at a snail’s pace), I can sleep on one side and not just on my back, and I am working a full day, albeit from the comfort, usually, of my bedroom.

I actually had to go back to my older posts to see what I may have written about my impending operation and recalled B is for Bureaucracy  mentioning the NHS postponement back in October. After a bit of telephone prodding and a reassessment of my condition, a letter flooded in with a revised date in February, and so it happened: I am the proud owner of a piece of mesh in my lower abdomen that my body has not rejected as a foreign object and a currently ghastly three-inch wound in a rather sensitive area. ‘Nuf said.

What I found out in the last 11 days about myself is not very surprising: I am a good patient when it comes to following orders; I am a bad patient when it comes to finding things to do to pass the time while following orders. I have taken several lessons in French on the Duolingo site (though I still cannot seem to master the possessives) and have watched a bit of the Olympics. I read part of my current book, Tulipomania (about how the tulip made and ruined fortunes), and probably read more news on line. I played one hand of solitaire before I realised I have become bored with solitaire. I am not a computer games kind of gal, so I didn’t even try one of those. I did catch up with some personal email so that my Inbox is a bit more manageable. (Oddly enough my work inbox is usually at 0 items by the end of the day, but my Google mail hovers at around 50 items at a time.)

And I’ve been occasionally challenged with the ebb and flow of workmen arriving at different times to do different tasks in different rooms, making it not possible to have a cup of tea or find something in the kitchen for lunch. I’ll admit it’s been mildly challenging, but it meant that I took a short “gentle walk” to the local supermarket for something for lunch rather than trying to enter the fray.

There was one day recently that had me just laughing out loud with the controlled chaos—the noise alone would have driven most people to flee! Merv and Leon the painters were busy sanding away while Leon was singing to his iPod and Merv, a lovely Jamaican, was singing mostly to himself in a wonderful Jamaican lilt. Ben and Reza were sawing kitchen tiles while listening to a rock station blasting 80s tunes. Ben tends to keep his head down; Reza occasionally sings a line aloud, just randomly, and then he laughs. With all this happening our electrician Sparky returned to finally push the recessed lighting into the spaces he created a few weeks ago where he left them hanging, seemingly to allow Merv to paint the ceiling. Sparky made an attempt at the first light, with bits of crumbly stuff and dust falling on our new unprotected wooden floor (to which Reza quickly responded and covered), ruined Merv’s paint work and just shrugged and carried on, making the same mess on another bit of the ceiling (which Merv tells me today may be difficult to just patch without re-painting the entire ceiling over).

Nevermind; it comes with the territory if you choose to inhabit a house in the throes of metamorphosis rather than sun in Spain.

There were a lot of things I wanted to do—my annual cull of the clothes that I haven’t worn in a year which then go to the charity shop, the dump, or a place that helps women prepare for interviews called SmartWorks where I occasionally volunteer, depending on the quality or worn-ness of the garment. Then I realised it was a lot of reaching, bending, and using my “core” which I have been told is a no-no, so that will wait.

I also wanted to move some of the remaining kitchen items down from their temporary, dusty abode in the second floor bedroom now that the kitchen is (gasp!) just about finished, but that would have meant overexerting myself, so that will wait, too.

But not much longer—the swelling is down considerably, I am sleeping better, and I feel more my normal self, so I will gradually add back a few physical tasks--starting with commuting to the office on Monday. I hope that by the end of next week when I know the painters will be done and it’s possible the plumber will be tidying up, we will have our house almost back . . . I say almost because there are small things around that need care—the newly-built cupboard needs doors so that my expensive wine glasses don’t tumble out when we whoosh by, but the builders needed to move on to another job while waiting on parts. There are a few wires here and there that need a trim and a tuck. And Tim and I need to do a picture inventory and decide which prints and paintings go back up on the walls, and where, now that we have a bit more space. It’s all good, and the once distant and seemingly elusive completion date, set in my mind’s eye of 17 March, looks promising.

To quote that well-known band Europe, it’s the final countdown.

Progress!

I am feeling good about my 2013 prediction that our London home will be its lovable, liveable self by the 17^th of March. Having thus far lived through wearing, cleaning and occasionally inhaling layers of dust and a lot of eating out, Tim and I are now living in more than one room and cooking meals regularly, even though the kitchen isn’t quite complete. The cooker is connected, the refrigerator is still in the centre of the room, and finding anything in the cupboards is a bit of a challenge . . . but it’s all doable. (Cue sigh of relief.)

The kitchen in transformation

I took the day off from work today to sort out those cupboards—first to clean them top to bottom of the dust that’s been collecting in and on top of them for six weeks or so, and to start thinking about how to rearrange the contents. The cooker has moved across the room, and there’s still a bit of indecision about where the electric kettle and toaster will go . . . and we have the addition of (I'm excited!) a cappuccino maker, a present from Tim’s mum, that also needs to find a bit of counter space. Everything else will hide neatly in drawers or behind closed doors. I am looking forward to a bright, clean, uncluttered space. It’s not like it was wildly crowded or messy before, but I think we’ll both be more cognisant of putting everything in its place.

I can’t believe how exhausting it’s been today! Once Tim left this morning I got started with emptying and/or wiping down every cabinet, preparing for this weekend when I expect—I hope—we’ll move most of the spices, glasses, dishes, cooking “stuff”, pots, pans and other assorted kitchen items into a permanent new home. I already cheated a bit—I’ve moved the dishes and glasses into a glass-fronted cupboard. I also placed a few spices and cooking ingredients in the cupboard nearest the cooker; it made sense at the time and can easily be reshuffled to another cabinet. I realise two of the new cupboards don’t have shelves in them, and need them! (A trip to Ikea may be in my future.)

The reception room

I’ve also made a few decisions, awaiting Tim’s consent, of bowls, mugs, and glasses that can find their way to the charity shop. We certainly have more than we ever use, even with guests, and I’m anxious to have a good chuck out rather than simply put everything back. We’ve been doing quite a lot of that over the last two months—I can make the first cut and Tim assesses the going-out pile, occasionally rescuing a pewter mug or a carpet croquet game. Slowly but surely the clutter is diminishing. This weekend will be an opportunity to do another blitz—poor Tim, I think it exhausts him emotionally, but he has found the multiple trips to the dump cathartic. Certainly there’s less stuff and nothing that’s been otherwise given away or tossed has been regretted. Possibly the old Tonka truck, but it was in terrible shape!

The reception rooms are now back in order, save for a bit of plastering / repainting that needs to happen around the new electrical outlets. Fortunately most of them are hidden behind something, or will be, so it doesn’t look glaringly awful.  The new wooden floor looks lovely, as I’d imagined, and the cleaner has been around to remove this week’s layer of dust—I’d been trying to keep up, knowing it was largely futile yet wanting to keep it liveable. I dug out the photographs and dusted those off as well. I know Tim is happy having his “office” back, though I’ll try to keep the ever-growing stacks of briefs in some hidden cabinet rather than on view as it’s the first room you see when you enter the house. (I’ve yet to win that battle, LOL.)

The office

It’s nice to have a comfortable chair to sit in and no longer need to live out of the bedroom, formerly the only untouched room in the house (though I might add the dust still managed to proliferate on everything in there). The second bedroom is, well, a tip; still lots of stuff from other places piled up, with its own layer of six-week plaster and other dust lying atop every inch of space. I have a narrow walkway in there to get to the two wardrobes that hold my clothes and shoes; I’ll admit to occasionally knocking into china or wine bottles and cursing under my breath! I know it will all be over soon and Tim will be serving drinks in honour of St Patrick before too long.

Speaking of events, I read that the groundhog saw his shadow so we’re in for six more weeks of winter. We are experiencing a very mild season here in London; it has barely reached freezing more than a handful of times and always in the late evening or early morning, and while the days have been wet, wet, wet, they have been mostly mild. I know the Northeast has been pummeled with snow, ice, and generally horrid conditions; I can’t imagine that anymore after six winters in England where the snow has come, but not every year and usually just with one occasion every other winter. Sure, I miss it a little . . . but not as much as New York pizza!

The new bedroom being painted

I’ll look forward to posting a few photos of us sipping something bubbly when all is said and done . . . the list seems never ending but now it is filled with for the most part the small things. Replace the carpet on the stairs; find a small writing table and chair for the new bedroom; get blinds for the new French doors.

March 17th. St Patrick is the patron saint of Ireland, yes, and also of engineers . . . I’d like to think we’ve  applied the principles of math (there’s been lots of measurements) and science (OK, that’s a stretch) to develop a solution to a practical problem—how to make the best of the space we have . . . with our patron saint looking down and smiling on us. We have chosen green (and white) tiles for the kitchen, after all.

And just think, it’ll be just days short of the vernal equinox! I know we’re all awaiting the return of spring. Bring it on.