My Property Blog
Day 1: My builder, aka Bob, has moved in. I love him. Yes, I know it’s day one of our refurbishment (our lower-ground floor is being turned into a family zone/homework hub/dining-room-meets-garden space) but I feel the love will grow through the heat, the dust, the burst pipes, the overspend etc etc. In fact, there will be no overspend. My Shoestring Chic fashion-designer-turned-interiors-whizz has given me a pep talk on KEEPING TO YOUR BUDGET ON PAIN OF DEATH. She’s now selling her des-res in Primrose Hill, which she renovated, for zillions, so I suppose she knows what she’s talking about. Bumped into the estate agent who sold our Primmy Hill gaffe and he said we sold at a great time. Is there ever a bad time for selling in Primmy Hill, I ask myself. Still.
Am planning a separate fridge for drinks. How grown-up is that? We’re having bar stools, too, admittedly ten years after everybody else, and I have all kinds of high jinks planned with strips of LED lighting. Am doing mood lighting too. The house can double as a casino. What was that landlord Bob says he’ll get Pepper, our miniature schnauzer puppy, a high-vis jacket and hard hat. I’m channelling Sarah Beeny and doing checked shirt, blue jeans and cowboys boots. Have been to Benchmarx, B & Q and Magnet so far in search of an unaffordable answer to Plain English.
Makes me wonder why we’ve just demolished the solid granite work top. Solid granite. I thought it was a dodgy composite.
All I ever seem to do is visit £20m penthouses – just because I am writing about them. Now I am about to do up my new house, armed with photos snapped on my mobile phone of interiors I have fallen in love with. Shoestring chic is the only way forward. My wish list includes: Venetian plastered walls, a boiling water tap, endless fridges and cupboards big enough to make C S Lewis weep with envy.
Having recently left paradise AKA Primrose Hill, I nearly hurled myself beneath the wheels of the nearest Lexus when I went back to my old manor this weekend. The scaffolding was up on our old building and the front door was open. I so nearly walked in to snoop around and see what the new owners were doing to our former des res, but thought better of it. What would I do if they had ripped up our leather tiles in our bedroom, fondly nicknamed the penthouse suite, or ripped up our end-grain oak flooring? Middle-class vandalism, it’s an epidemic.