Seasons Greetings. Again.
December arrives with a vengeance and with it comes wind, rain, hail and all the trimmings. The trees and gardens have really taken a thrashing but on the flip side the sun is beginning to reappear on a semi-regular basis and the grass is growing at the rate of knots. Our local kangaroos are out of hibernation and Old Spikey is a regular sight on my nightly laps around The Tan.
I am still battling the internal struggle of whether or not to put up the Christmas tree, and have decided to hedge my bets. If I leave the tree in the box in the lounge room, and put a few presents under the decorative number that was on display last year when we moved in, then I reckon we will have the best of both worlds and everyone should be happy.
There was one particular Wednesday recently when The Girl and I both had the day off and we headed out to try and knock over most of the Christmas shopping. With elevated spirits and many items ticked off our list we met my Mum for lunch and took the opportunity to have the moment captured with Santa. In hindsight I realise that it’s because of people like us that everyone else leaves whiskey out on Christmas Eve for the old bloke, but I also admit that there was a certain twinkle in his eye when we said our goodbyes. I reckon he was happier with us three on his knee than the two screaming toddlers that were waiting next in line. I also believe that shopping centre Santas probably don’t get paid enough. That job must really have it’s moments.
Reno progression is chugging along steadily and Hubby is still at his day job trying to get things sorted before he winds up for the holiday break. Sir Joe has been back to install cupboard doors, the island bench top and the remainder of the cabinetry which made me feel like I could begin to exhale for the first time in what seems like forever. Things are really beginning to take shape. The Stone Man also paid us a visit bearing bench tops and the plumber arrived in the same week for his encore performance, working his magic in the bathroom, kitchen and ensuite to ensure water goes everywhere it is supposed to, and nowhere that it shouldn’t.
After some extensive deliberation a decision was reached on the tiles for the kitchen, and this was slightly more difficult than I expected. We managed to select two colours quite easily but after leaving them in the kitchen for comparison against the paint and cupboard colours, we have come to realise that our kitchen is like a chameleon. You see, in some lights the room looks brown, in some lights it looks a little green, and anywhere in between it can range from taupe to beige to camel. By the way, they are all actual colours. I didn’t just make that up for fun. Anyway, we eventually agreed on the safer option and chose the lighter of the two, knowing that down the track if we ever wanted to change it up, that would be an inexpensive way to go.
With a little more paint work still to be done I have been spending any spare time on the better end of a paint brush, which has freed Hubby up for more constructive jobs like tiling and fitting off light switches, power points and other electrical jiggy bits. One afternoon The Girl stuck her head in and asked if I needed anything, to which I replied I would kill for a coffee. She disappeared for quite a while which I thought meant she had gone to boil the kettle. Some time later I glanced down to find she had generously left me a coffee sachet. No cup. No water. No love. It really is hard to get good help these days.
I recently accompanied Hubby to what I hope is my last trip to Bunnings and the tile place. Don’t get me wrong, I do love a shopping expedition but this kind of shopping means that we are still in the reconstructive phase. And I am anxious for this phase to be just that. A phase. With an end.
If there was one job I could simply never do it’s working with tiles. Every time I walk into a place like this all I feel is my heart rate elevate to a level that should only be felt in a half marathon. My palms get sweaty, my skin lathers up and I find myself looking for the nearest exit. This is pure torture. The girls that work here so clearly love their job and it amazes me to see the joy on their faces when somebody asks for assistance. They revel in the endless choices at their disposal and the selection on offer is mind blowing. If these tile girls met with Sir Joe and his colour board for a little rendezvous , my word, what shenanigans would result.
So, here’s where we are at. The fire place is now complete, the floor sander came, saw and conquered, and Hubby is tiling and fitting off like a scene from The Fast and Furious. And I am pretty sure the end must be somewhere in sight.