When we last visited the ongoing renovation saga, we were waiting for an
electrician to visit. This visit was promised by the electrician who had fixed
the blown fuse that had defused our Thanksgiving Dinner, and who had been
appalled by the state of the electrics. This had happened before, and no
promised visit had occurred, so my wife and I set out to find suitable tiles
for the half-finished kitchen.
We brought the tiles home and I contacted the Kitchen Guy to come and
finish the job. Then an amazing thing happened: an electrician came to the flat
to prepare an estimate for the landlord to upgrade the fuse box.
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| This is what we have been living with since November |
We were astonished by this. The landlord had, heretofore, shown no
interest in fixing the the fuse-box, despite it having been repeatedly reported
as A) antiquated and B) dangerous. Apparently, he got tired of being told and
figured he’d at least see how much it would cost to stop electricians
chuntering on about it.
The electrician fiddled a bit, wrote up a quote (nowhere near as much as
what we had already spent on the kitchen) and then set about unscrewing a
switch-plate so he could see what the wiring behind it looked like. I told him
he could see all the electrics he wanted to in the kitchen, where the walls
were still nothing but plaster and wires, and he thought that was a grand idea,
until he saw it.
When he entered the kitchen, he literally groaned and said, “I wish you
hadn’t shown me this.”
Apparently, the wiring in our kitchen was not only dangerous, it was
illegal, and to remain true to his electrician’s oath, he was duty-bound to
report it. This meant the landlord would have to have the kitchen rewired,
which did not make me happy. Causing the landlord to spend money had not been the
plan. In fact, the entire project had been conceived so he wouldn’t have to
spend any money, and here he was being forced to shell out God knows how much
to rectify illegal wiring. This was not going to endear us to him, and I could
see our nice, new kitchen being enjoyed by someone else while we lived under a
bridge. (Revenge evictions are like a competitive sport among landlords here.)
And so, the electrician left, and we called the Kitchen Guy and told him
to stand down because it would do little good for him to tile the kitchen only
to have it torn apart for the wring to be done. And we waited.
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| Apparently, this isn't the done thing. |
And waited.
The holidays came and went, a new year arrived, and another birthday
eased me into an era that, as Paul McCartney notes, finds me losing my hair and
wondering if someone will still send me a valentine, birthday greeting or
bottle of wine.
And, still, we waited.
Then, in mid-February, the electrician arrived, and we had to move
everything out of the kitchen and stack it in the living room while, for two
days, he fiddled with wires and left us sitting in the dark for extended
periods. When he left, we cleaned up, moved all the stuff back into the kitchen
and called the Kitchen Guy. I expected to spend a week or so chasing him around,
but he called straight back and told us he’d send a guy to do the plastering
the next day.
So, we took everything out of the kitchen, again, and re-stacked it in
the living room.
The plastering took only one day, but it needed five days to dry.
The plastering took only one day, but it needed five days to dry.
It also took me into an arena I am unfamiliar with. I can put up sheet
rock, but plastering, to me, is a dark art. And seeing the plaster go on is a
stark reminder that rooms in British houses are really little more than squared
off caves. Plaster also has properties I was unaware of. Before the Plaster Guy
left, he told me I needed to put a mist coat on it (after it dried, of course).
I was grateful for this information, because it was news to me. When would I
have ever painted raw plaster?
The Plaster Guy told me to mix equal amounts of paint and water, put it
on and let it dry, after which I could do the real painting.
Then the Kitchen Guy came to inspect the work. He mentioned the
Mist-Coat, as well, and I told him I was going to mix the paint 50/50 with
water, as if I had known this all along. He said a 10 percent solution would do,
and it depended on the paint, anyway. Not to worry, though, he told me, the
directions for mixing a Mist-Coat were on the side of every paint can.
They weren’t.
Google suggested a seven to three ratio, and since that was between 10
percent and 50/50, I went with that.
Two days and three coats of paint later, the walls were painted.
We moved all the stuff back into the kitchen and called the Kitchen Guy
to tell him he could start the tiling. I expected to spend a week or so chasing
him around, but he called straight back and told us he’d send a guy to do the
tiling the next day.
So, we took everything out of the kitchen, again, and re-stacked it in
the living room. Again.
The next two days saw the Kitchen Guy and his minions tiling, grouting
and siliconeing and, when it was all over, we finally had our renovated
kitchen—three months to the day after the work began.
The following morning, we took all the kitchen stuff piled in the living
room, put it back in the kitchen and life, at last, returned to normal.
Whatever that is.
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| What it used to look like. |
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| What it looks like now. |
