Until this afternoon, we had a bright pink carpet in the dining room.
I hate it.
I have hated it since we first viewed the house. I have no idea what might have compelled anyone not on drugs to make this choice in their actual home. In a bedroom of an elderly aunt, maybe, thirty years ago. Certainly not in a DINING ROOM where actual people might actually see it.
But, worse, this was evidently relatively recently fitted. It was in 'good' condition. Like new, in fact. There were more urgent jobs when we moved in. I am famous for my big plans and shallow pockets. Other things had to come first.
And so the pink carpet remained.
For THREE YEARS.
It has tormented me at least daily. Mostly early mornings, when I come down before everyone else is up and rage at it, silently. Sometimes, when it is covered in Kempton hair when she is being particularly moulty, and I have to vacuum three times a day, then I rage out loud.
We have talked occasionally about putting some tiles down. And now seemed like a good time. Hearth-Father has plenty of time on his hands, for once. (At least three more weeks of lockdown, as was announced today.) So he spent a good four hours measuring up, researching tiles and grout, comparing prices. The time really had come. We had made a decision on the very tiles (or at least narrowed it down to three), when he pulled up a corner of the carpet to see what lay beneath...
...to discover the most glorious, perfectly intact parquet flooring.
It rather changed the whole complexion of an otherwise quiet afternoon. Suddenly it was all hands to the deck, so to speak: now the dining room gets a spring clean, we get a new floor, and it hasn't cost a penny.
Gertie, Gilby and Eddie are providing the labour.
Well, mostly Gilby and Eddie, to be fair. Gertie is 'a bit busy', and (evidently practising for becoming a teenager next month), now sees 12pm as an outrageously early time to be out of bed.
As you were.
Currently reading: The Volunteer by Jack Fairweather
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