I visited the Beloved in his swanky new flat today. So we could sign the Separation Agreement. I imagined an event rather like the signing of the Magna Carta, or the Declaration of Independence. You know, a lot of serious men in beards, quill pens, strange hats, trousers that have little flappy bits and button up at the front.
Sadly it was not to be on this historic day. But don’t worry, something historic did happen (that comes later). The Separation Agreement that I had driven through the long and windy night (or rush hour traffic depending on how you look at it) to retrieve from Spicketts & Battrick (I kid you not) in deepest Splott transpired not so much to be a Separation Agreement as an Agreement to make an Agreement. And to pay the aforementioned Spicketts & Battrick a phat load of cash.
Undeterred and only slightly tearful I determine to make light conversation:
‘Flat’s looking nice. I like your red kettle and florescent pink sheets’
‘I chose them for the colour’ Nice to see that good taste still plays a leading role in his life.
‘New trousers?’
‘Yes, M&S, but the fluff from the new carpet keeps sticking to them.’ I nod sympathetically. I understand that he too has his problems.
‘And nice new flat-screen TV.’
‘Yes, and I can use it as a monitor too.’
I am reassured that at least he has overcome his lack of sports-viewing.
‘I’ve been trying to mend the shed.’
The blank look on his face leads me to believe that he may have forgotten the shed. That, somehow, the shed no longer plays a leading role in his life. Undeterred I continue, ‘it needs new felt for the walls.’
‘I don’t think we can afford that at the moment, it’s been an expensive month.’
Still undeterred I return home. And go into the garden to reclaim the lawn from it’s status as a meadow. Whilst hard at strimming my neighbour approaches:
‘Big storm forecast for tomorrow,’ he declares in a sage-like manner.
‘Oh my God! The shed!’ I declare in a non-sage-like manner. ‘It’s still all leaky! What about my precious slightly mouldy flat-packed furniture that I’m going to sell on ebay and thus support myself and my children on for the foreseeable future?!?!!!’
My neighbour, unlike the Beloved, totally sees the crisis in the situation. He appreciates that the shed is not only a shed housing much precious belongings, but an iconic building in itself. After all, his grandfather built this magnificent edifice with his own hands. It has stood through storm, disaster, famine, various hunger pangs, and numerous light rain showers for the last 50 years. Or so. The shed is an emblem of sheddiness. Nothing, not even single-parent impecuniousness should stand in the way of the restoration of this historic piece of vernacular architecture.
‘I have some plastic,’ he offers kindly.
‘And I have some old vinyl flooring,’ I add, just to sound like I’m not totally scrounging, ‘and a staple-gun.’
This is what happened:
The plastic was bright green. The vinyl flooring was fake cork. They made a stunning combination. All my combined experience of half a degree in Architecture, years of crap DIY and a qualification in quilt-making blended seamlessly into one great work of Restoration. I think it puts previous efforts of The National Trust, World Heritage and Cadw into the shade. It even outstrips the magnificence of my Greenham Common Bender and that was almost waterproof.
This is it:
When I showed it proudly to the lawyer, and reassured her that should worse come to worst we could always live in this magnificent building she smiled. Or perhaps it was wind.
Sadly it was not to be on this historic day. But don’t worry, something historic did happen (that comes later). The Separation Agreement that I had driven through the long and windy night (or rush hour traffic depending on how you look at it) to retrieve from Spicketts & Battrick (I kid you not) in deepest Splott transpired not so much to be a Separation Agreement as an Agreement to make an Agreement. And to pay the aforementioned Spicketts & Battrick a phat load of cash.
Undeterred and only slightly tearful I determine to make light conversation:
‘Flat’s looking nice. I like your red kettle and florescent pink sheets’
‘I chose them for the colour’ Nice to see that good taste still plays a leading role in his life.
‘New trousers?’
‘Yes, M&S, but the fluff from the new carpet keeps sticking to them.’ I nod sympathetically. I understand that he too has his problems.
‘And nice new flat-screen TV.’
‘Yes, and I can use it as a monitor too.’
I am reassured that at least he has overcome his lack of sports-viewing.
‘I’ve been trying to mend the shed.’
The blank look on his face leads me to believe that he may have forgotten the shed. That, somehow, the shed no longer plays a leading role in his life. Undeterred I continue, ‘it needs new felt for the walls.’
‘I don’t think we can afford that at the moment, it’s been an expensive month.’
Still undeterred I return home. And go into the garden to reclaim the lawn from it’s status as a meadow. Whilst hard at strimming my neighbour approaches:
‘Big storm forecast for tomorrow,’ he declares in a sage-like manner.
‘Oh my God! The shed!’ I declare in a non-sage-like manner. ‘It’s still all leaky! What about my precious slightly mouldy flat-packed furniture that I’m going to sell on ebay and thus support myself and my children on for the foreseeable future?!?!!!’
My neighbour, unlike the Beloved, totally sees the crisis in the situation. He appreciates that the shed is not only a shed housing much precious belongings, but an iconic building in itself. After all, his grandfather built this magnificent edifice with his own hands. It has stood through storm, disaster, famine, various hunger pangs, and numerous light rain showers for the last 50 years. Or so. The shed is an emblem of sheddiness. Nothing, not even single-parent impecuniousness should stand in the way of the restoration of this historic piece of vernacular architecture.
‘I have some plastic,’ he offers kindly.
‘And I have some old vinyl flooring,’ I add, just to sound like I’m not totally scrounging, ‘and a staple-gun.’
This is what happened:
The plastic was bright green. The vinyl flooring was fake cork. They made a stunning combination. All my combined experience of half a degree in Architecture, years of crap DIY and a qualification in quilt-making blended seamlessly into one great work of Restoration. I think it puts previous efforts of The National Trust, World Heritage and Cadw into the shade. It even outstrips the magnificence of my Greenham Common Bender and that was almost waterproof.
This is it:
When I showed it proudly to the lawyer, and reassured her that should worse come to worst we could always live in this magnificent building she smiled. Or perhaps it was wind.
