My Little House is bigger than it looks. It has 2 large downstairs rooms, two double bedrooms and a huge grenier that runs the length of the house.
My original plan was to spend my entire budget renovating the attic. WHY? I have no kitchen or bathroom. What fricking good is an attic going to be if I can’t eat or bathe? Perhaps I could practice yoga up there until the stench of my unwashed body drives all thought of food from my mind. Or maybe not. Hence the need for a new plan.
I have been back and forth, round the houses and to the foot of our stairs and back trying to decide what to put where.
Some things are fairly obvious. Like having the bedrooms upstairs. No point in being contrary for the sake of it. We’re not in Salford now.*
Other things are less obvious. Like which room is the kitchen and which the living room. Where do the things go that need water and electricity? Where the heck am I going to put the second toilet? Andy D. gets me thinking outside the box and the plan starts to take shape.
The kitchen has to go at the back because I am going to have a utility room in the courtyard. With … and this is the bit that has me jumping up and down… a terrace on top. L'Architecte des Bâtiments de France won’t like it. So flipping what? He doesn’t need to see it. I think, if I remember rightly, if he can’t see it, I don’t have to apply for permission. I’ll have to check.
My nice neighbour AJ is a bit doom and gloom about it, but I’m sure it’s only because I’ve rejected his idea of a glass roof as a passive heating system. I want a terrace dammit! Geraniums! Croissants and morning coffee!
Even if I’m banned from having a terrace it makes complete sense to utilise the courtyard. It’s too narrow and the walls are too high for it to work as an outside space, so making it an indoor space is sheer genius.
Paul comes round tomorrow morning. Terrace terrace terrace terrace terrace…
I need to check the Architecte's rules.
*Urban Splash's achingly trendy Chimney Pot Park sees Salford's old red brick terraces reinvented as loft-style living areas by, yes really, putting the bedrooms on the ground floor and the living space up above with terraces and balconies.
Wednesday, 20 April 2011
The Bank, The Satnav & The Missing €2,400
THINGS THAT ARE GREAT
The Vision
I have been tying my brain in knots trying to get a master plan together that will enable me to use Paul’s superior building knowledge to full advantage whilst I skip off to the Stephen Joseph Theatre in Scarborough to play at dressy-ups. Today, with the help of Andy D, that comes to fruition. More about that later.
Cut Price Xylophene
On my way out of St Leonard along the Bujaleuf road, I pass a Briconaut. Such is my obsession with all things renovatory, I cannot resist stopping and looking at power tools and paint and the like. Inside they have the tipetty-top kill-all-insects-and-anti-fungal-into-the-bargain Xylophene for a mere €31 for a 6 litre tin. I buy 3, hoping that the local builders yard will give me a refund on the Cecil on the grounds that the name is not scary enough. Hmmm. If they don't, I will have spent €200 on woodworm treatment.
THINGS THAT ARE A BIT RUBBISH
Payback time at the bank.
They’ve given me my mortgage and in return I know that I am going to be pressured into taking out their package, which will include a bank card, cheque book, insurance for these items, internet banking, £400 overdraft facility… and for these privileges they are going to charge me, yes people, CHARGE me, over €100 per year. When I empty my purse and show Mme Faury my array of free UK plastic, she is gobsmacked. However, if I don’t take out the package, it all costs a lot more. I hate it. €18 per year for internet banking??? Tant pis.
Road Closures.
I’m a bit wrong footed when I get to the bank because a journey that should take me half an hour has taken three times that. I’m bowling along through rural limousin loveliness when I’m hit by a yellow sign. Route Debarré. Bollocks! I don’t believe it but yes it’s true, they’ve closed the road exactly at the only point I can cross the river to get to St Leonard de Noblat.
Satnav.
Useless useless bloody useless! People who know me know my view on Satnav. I know my own view on Satnav. So why oh why do I choose to rely on it?! When the road closes, it recalculates then spends the next hour telling me to turn round and go back the way I’ve come, whilst I end up at Feytiat before I have the good sense to stop at a garage and buy a bloody map. My view on Satnav is, for those who don’t know me: Invented for people who can’t read maps and deserve to be lost.
The Dodgy Notaire:
Whilst at the bank I get sight of a statement that says that the bank have paid just over €30,000 to the Notaire. Remember him? Scary teeth and a dodgy dye-job? Well I got my maths O level and it doesn’t take a genius to work out the following:
Cost of house: €24,000 (yes really)
Agent’s fees: €3,000 (I’m in the wrong job)
Notaire’s Fees: €3,000 (are orthodontics tax deductable in France?)
So what the hell has happened to the €2,400 I paid as my deposit?? After the bank, I head straight for the Notaire’s office. Access to him is restricted by three female pitbulls so I’m frightfully polite and ask to see the relevée de frais du prêt as I think there may have been une erreur. They are frosty in the extreme but do as I ask, and from the adjoining office I distinctly hear someone say: ‘Merde!’ Suddenly the atmosphere thaws and they are being extremely nice to me. What name would I like on the cheque? I ask for a transfer electronique. There’s no bloody way I’m driving all the way back to St Leonard, map or no map.
Actually, this should really be in the ‘things that are great’ column as I totally kick ass, in French, and get my money back.
It’s all good.
The Vision
I have been tying my brain in knots trying to get a master plan together that will enable me to use Paul’s superior building knowledge to full advantage whilst I skip off to the Stephen Joseph Theatre in Scarborough to play at dressy-ups. Today, with the help of Andy D, that comes to fruition. More about that later.
Cut Price Xylophene
On my way out of St Leonard along the Bujaleuf road, I pass a Briconaut. Such is my obsession with all things renovatory, I cannot resist stopping and looking at power tools and paint and the like. Inside they have the tipetty-top kill-all-insects-and-anti-fungal-into-the-bargain Xylophene for a mere €31 for a 6 litre tin. I buy 3, hoping that the local builders yard will give me a refund on the Cecil on the grounds that the name is not scary enough. Hmmm. If they don't, I will have spent €200 on woodworm treatment.
THINGS THAT ARE A BIT RUBBISH
Payback time at the bank.
They’ve given me my mortgage and in return I know that I am going to be pressured into taking out their package, which will include a bank card, cheque book, insurance for these items, internet banking, £400 overdraft facility… and for these privileges they are going to charge me, yes people, CHARGE me, over €100 per year. When I empty my purse and show Mme Faury my array of free UK plastic, she is gobsmacked. However, if I don’t take out the package, it all costs a lot more. I hate it. €18 per year for internet banking??? Tant pis.
Road Closures.
I’m a bit wrong footed when I get to the bank because a journey that should take me half an hour has taken three times that. I’m bowling along through rural limousin loveliness when I’m hit by a yellow sign. Route Debarré. Bollocks! I don’t believe it but yes it’s true, they’ve closed the road exactly at the only point I can cross the river to get to St Leonard de Noblat.
Satnav.
Useless useless bloody useless! People who know me know my view on Satnav. I know my own view on Satnav. So why oh why do I choose to rely on it?! When the road closes, it recalculates then spends the next hour telling me to turn round and go back the way I’ve come, whilst I end up at Feytiat before I have the good sense to stop at a garage and buy a bloody map. My view on Satnav is, for those who don’t know me: Invented for people who can’t read maps and deserve to be lost.
The Dodgy Notaire:
Whilst at the bank I get sight of a statement that says that the bank have paid just over €30,000 to the Notaire. Remember him? Scary teeth and a dodgy dye-job? Well I got my maths O level and it doesn’t take a genius to work out the following:
Cost of house: €24,000 (yes really)
Agent’s fees: €3,000 (I’m in the wrong job)
Notaire’s Fees: €3,000 (are orthodontics tax deductable in France?)
So what the hell has happened to the €2,400 I paid as my deposit?? After the bank, I head straight for the Notaire’s office. Access to him is restricted by three female pitbulls so I’m frightfully polite and ask to see the relevée de frais du prêt as I think there may have been une erreur. They are frosty in the extreme but do as I ask, and from the adjoining office I distinctly hear someone say: ‘Merde!’ Suddenly the atmosphere thaws and they are being extremely nice to me. What name would I like on the cheque? I ask for a transfer electronique. There’s no bloody way I’m driving all the way back to St Leonard, map or no map.
Actually, this should really be in the ‘things that are great’ column as I totally kick ass, in French, and get my money back.
It’s all good.
Shiver Me Timbers part ii
The pay off for all the scariness in the cellar is when I get to put on plastic eyewear and a gas mask, and play with dangerous chemicals. Yeeeehah! If any woodworm or capricorn beetles are lurking in my beams, the sight of me in my protective gear brandishing an innocent looking flower spray will strike terror into the very fibre of their beings. My fibre. From MY timbers. There is no nice way of doing this. This is war. They have to die.
A quick word about products: I’m going down the nasty-nasty route. Apparently you can use boron solution, which is less evil but I don’t want to take the risk that it is also less effective.
My builder has recommended Zylophene. I can’t face the drive up the A20 to castorama so I go for what the local builders yard have, which calls itself ‘Cecil’. As names go, it’s not one that inspires fear but it’s still got little orange pictures of dying fish on it and is guaranteed to keep the little feckers at bay for 10 years so I reckon it’ll be ok.
A quick word about products: I’m going down the nasty-nasty route. Apparently you can use boron solution, which is less evil but I don’t want to take the risk that it is also less effective.
My builder has recommended Zylophene. I can’t face the drive up the A20 to castorama so I go for what the local builders yard have, which calls itself ‘Cecil’. As names go, it’s not one that inspires fear but it’s still got little orange pictures of dying fish on it and is guaranteed to keep the little feckers at bay for 10 years so I reckon it’ll be ok.
Monday, 18 April 2011
Shiver Me Timbers!
Today I am mostly scaring myself rigid by tackling the timbers in the cellar.
I had a good meeting with my builder, Paul, on Friday. He and Nikki live up on the plateau of a thousand cows. I lodged in their guest apartment before Christmas and Nikki was the first person I called when I drove my car into a ravine. Logical. If she can cope with raising four sons, she can cope with anything.
Paul and I agree that as my current budget is limited, he’ll do the more skilled, builder-orientated work like stuff involving roofs and walls and plumbing; and I shall stick to reasonably disaster-proof tasks such as timber treatment and painting.
Ha! I am not a faint-hearted individual. I am not afraid to tackle scruffy-headed youths who drop litter on city streets, but my knees start to buckle at how much rotten wood comes away when I attack the beams in the cellar with a wire brush.
Here’s the thing: the theory is that oak is so invincible that the little bastard woodworms can eat away at a good third of the outside without touching the heartwood. Nice theory. These beams are holding up the entire house, so I defend my right as a property owner to be a bit scared.
TIP OF THE DAY:
Get someone else to do it. You’ll save yourself a fortune in valium.
I had a good meeting with my builder, Paul, on Friday. He and Nikki live up on the plateau of a thousand cows. I lodged in their guest apartment before Christmas and Nikki was the first person I called when I drove my car into a ravine. Logical. If she can cope with raising four sons, she can cope with anything.
Paul and I agree that as my current budget is limited, he’ll do the more skilled, builder-orientated work like stuff involving roofs and walls and plumbing; and I shall stick to reasonably disaster-proof tasks such as timber treatment and painting.
Ha! I am not a faint-hearted individual. I am not afraid to tackle scruffy-headed youths who drop litter on city streets, but my knees start to buckle at how much rotten wood comes away when I attack the beams in the cellar with a wire brush.
Here’s the thing: the theory is that oak is so invincible that the little bastard woodworms can eat away at a good third of the outside without touching the heartwood. Nice theory. These beams are holding up the entire house, so I defend my right as a property owner to be a bit scared.
TIP OF THE DAY:
Get someone else to do it. You’ll save yourself a fortune in valium.
Saturday, 16 April 2011
Hidden Treasure
I've always been good at demolishing things. Food, wine, relationships...
When I tell JL I'm getting busy with a crowbar he laughs wryly. He remembers the time I pulled down the ceiling in his Chelsea flat then promptly got a job and buggered off on tour leaving him with piles of rubble.
In this instance I am buggering off, to Scarborough this time, but not for a couple of weeks. Plenty of time for a little exploratory work...
I'm just trying to imagine the thought process behind it. I mean WHY? Why brick the fireplace up in the first place? And why hide not one but TWO woodburning stoves behind it?
The chains, I'm reliably informed by my neighbour, were used for cooking. No reason whatsoever why I can't recycle them in the torture chamber I'm planning for the cellar...
Aha! OK, this is starting to make sense. Central heating. Boiler. Flue. No wood burners required.
Now how the feck am I going to hide that boiler flue?
When I tell JL I'm getting busy with a crowbar he laughs wryly. He remembers the time I pulled down the ceiling in his Chelsea flat then promptly got a job and buggered off on tour leaving him with piles of rubble.
In this instance I am buggering off, to Scarborough this time, but not for a couple of weeks. Plenty of time for a little exploratory work...
The chains, I'm reliably informed by my neighbour, were used for cooking. No reason whatsoever why I can't recycle them in the torture chamber I'm planning for the cellar...
Now how the feck am I going to hide that boiler flue?
The Cracked Pipe
Winters out here in the Limousin are very cold. No need for the word ‘apparently’ because I’ve been here in winter. I know. The lady who owned the house before me obviously didn’t know, or didn’t care or was very stupid, because she didn’t drain the system the last time she was here. One of the first things Mr B showed me was how to turn the water on and off, and how to get all the water OUT of the pipes. Had she been more knowledgeable/caring or less stupid, the following would not have happened:
1. The beautiful cast iron radiators in both upper bedrooms would not have split
2. The embryonic shower plumbing in the bathroom would not have blown
I was lucky in two respects. Mr & Mrs B noticed the radiators and had them capped off. They didn’t notice the shower but were here testing the boiler with a plumber when the water was switched on. He fitted isolation tapas for the shower. Olé.
When the HHs came round for champagne and jollity, Nick worked some plumbing magic (I think he just took the flexi pipes off and capped them but one never knows with plumbers!) so that I could have water upstairs, use the loo and shower in the bedroom; where either the plumbing is more robust, or the temperature doesn’t drop so low. I’m really hoping it’s the latter. I’ll let you know in November.
I’m digressing madly on the subject of plumbing, a dangerous thing to do. I can’t blame the previous owner for what I’m about to tell you next, although I suspect she may have known about it.
So here’s the thing: I’m sitting having breakfast when I remember that a few days ago I put a bowl under a drip in the cupboard where the downstairs loo used to be. I meander over to check it only to discover that not only has it overflowed, but also the water in the bowl is suspiciously murky.
Murky water. Former loo. A bit niffy. Oh shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.
I phone Nick. He’s calm as you like. Of course he is, it’s not his loo that’s backing up! He says it’s probably where my pipes join the tout-à-l’égout in the street. He tells me to pop over to the Mairie and ask them to get someone to look at it.
Is tennis popular in France? The receptionist at the Mairie has obviously been practising her return serve because she tells me I need a plumber. Mr. B’s French plumber is booked up for weeks but on hearing the problem comes straight round.
Can I just take a self-congratulatory moment here? I had to leave him a message. On the telephone. In French. About
PLUMBING. And he understood!
He identifies the site of the blockage (unfortunately in my cellar not in the street outside) and gets out his rod (oo-er Mrs). It’s only when the rod doubles back and hits him in the face that we realise that this is not just a simple case of irresponsible sanitary towel disposal. Look at the picture below. That is the soil pipe that runs under my floor carrying waste from the loo. Notice it’s cracked? The reason it’s blocked is because all the ancient rubble and dust has fallen INTO the crack. I have an open sewer running underneath my front room.
Lots of Gallic shrugging ensues. I prefer this to the teeth-sucking behaviour of the British. The main problem appears to be that he is supposed to be working at the boulangerie down the road. He speaks to his boss. I am banned from using my facilities for 24 hours. I can still wash up and shower, I just can’t do anything that involves lowering my pants for lavatorial purposes. Fortunately there are excellent public facilities in the square that are clean, warm and open 24/7. I love France!
The following day I make Christophe-le-plombier un café then depart for Castorama (Think Wickes) and the SFR shop. By the time I return with some self-adhesive decorative plastic and an internet stick, he has fitted a new loo downstairs. This is a temporary measure as to fit it upstairs requires the removal of the large metal soil pipe that is of the same provenance as the one featured in the picture above.
I am feeling cheerful about my new loo for the following reasons:
1. My dealings with Christophe and the Mairie were conducted entirely in French and I have learned several new words.
2. It has totally cured me of the notion that I will be able to fit a second loo downstairs. There are huge privacy issues before you even address the question of hygiene and odour management. The other thing is that because the cubicle is so wee (no pun intended) there is barely room to close the door if you’re sitting down, so God knows how the gents are going to manage!
I am feeling apprehensive about my new loo for the following reasons:
1. My curtains downstairs are not substantial. If I neglect to close the door whilst the light is on (very likely: see above), there is a danger that I will be sharing my toilet behaviour with the square outside.
2. The last time I used the upstairs loo, I didn’t flush. At some point, I am going to have to empty it manually.
3. I haven’t had the bill yet.
MOTS DU JOUR
Le tout-à-l’égout = mains drainage
La vidange = waste pipe
Completement pourri = completely rotten
Boucheé = blocked (can be used for traffic and noses as well as drains)
1. The beautiful cast iron radiators in both upper bedrooms would not have split
2. The embryonic shower plumbing in the bathroom would not have blown
I was lucky in two respects. Mr & Mrs B noticed the radiators and had them capped off. They didn’t notice the shower but were here testing the boiler with a plumber when the water was switched on. He fitted isolation tapas for the shower. Olé.
When the HHs came round for champagne and jollity, Nick worked some plumbing magic (I think he just took the flexi pipes off and capped them but one never knows with plumbers!) so that I could have water upstairs, use the loo and shower in the bedroom; where either the plumbing is more robust, or the temperature doesn’t drop so low. I’m really hoping it’s the latter. I’ll let you know in November.
I’m digressing madly on the subject of plumbing, a dangerous thing to do. I can’t blame the previous owner for what I’m about to tell you next, although I suspect she may have known about it.
So here’s the thing: I’m sitting having breakfast when I remember that a few days ago I put a bowl under a drip in the cupboard where the downstairs loo used to be. I meander over to check it only to discover that not only has it overflowed, but also the water in the bowl is suspiciously murky.
Murky water. Former loo. A bit niffy. Oh shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.I phone Nick. He’s calm as you like. Of course he is, it’s not his loo that’s backing up! He says it’s probably where my pipes join the tout-à-l’égout in the street. He tells me to pop over to the Mairie and ask them to get someone to look at it.
Is tennis popular in France? The receptionist at the Mairie has obviously been practising her return serve because she tells me I need a plumber. Mr. B’s French plumber is booked up for weeks but on hearing the problem comes straight round.
Can I just take a self-congratulatory moment here? I had to leave him a message. On the telephone. In French. About
PLUMBING. And he understood!
He identifies the site of the blockage (unfortunately in my cellar not in the street outside) and gets out his rod (oo-er Mrs). It’s only when the rod doubles back and hits him in the face that we realise that this is not just a simple case of irresponsible sanitary towel disposal. Look at the picture below. That is the soil pipe that runs under my floor carrying waste from the loo. Notice it’s cracked? The reason it’s blocked is because all the ancient rubble and dust has fallen INTO the crack. I have an open sewer running underneath my front room.
Lots of Gallic shrugging ensues. I prefer this to the teeth-sucking behaviour of the British. The main problem appears to be that he is supposed to be working at the boulangerie down the road. He speaks to his boss. I am banned from using my facilities for 24 hours. I can still wash up and shower, I just can’t do anything that involves lowering my pants for lavatorial purposes. Fortunately there are excellent public facilities in the square that are clean, warm and open 24/7. I love France! The following day I make Christophe-le-plombier un café then depart for Castorama (Think Wickes) and the SFR shop. By the time I return with some self-adhesive decorative plastic and an internet stick, he has fitted a new loo downstairs. This is a temporary measure as to fit it upstairs requires the removal of the large metal soil pipe that is of the same provenance as the one featured in the picture above.
I am feeling cheerful about my new loo for the following reasons:
1. My dealings with Christophe and the Mairie were conducted entirely in French and I have learned several new words.
2. It has totally cured me of the notion that I will be able to fit a second loo downstairs. There are huge privacy issues before you even address the question of hygiene and odour management. The other thing is that because the cubicle is so wee (no pun intended) there is barely room to close the door if you’re sitting down, so God knows how the gents are going to manage!
I am feeling apprehensive about my new loo for the following reasons:
1. My curtains downstairs are not substantial. If I neglect to close the door whilst the light is on (very likely: see above), there is a danger that I will be sharing my toilet behaviour with the square outside.
2. The last time I used the upstairs loo, I didn’t flush. At some point, I am going to have to empty it manually.
3. I haven’t had the bill yet.
MOTS DU JOUR
Le tout-à-l’égout = mains drainage
La vidange = waste pipe
Completement pourri = completely rotten
Boucheé = blocked (can be used for traffic and noses as well as drains)
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