I didn't manage it. I tried, really I did, but I just couldn't fight the forces of darkness. i.e. the Builders
Since my last entry I have had four different abodes, only one of which gave me easy access to the internet. One didn't even bother to offer it, for goodness sakes!
Can I have a good moan again? Please? Can I? Huh? Huh? Huh?
Okay, since the last renovation update and bleat combination things have been happening. Not happy things I must warn you. Things to do with paint. Things to do with fumes and a three month old baby. Things to do with people who are barely one step above Neanderthal with regards to using that large thing balanced precariously on top of their shoulders.
If I said to you...
Let me know when it will be okay to move in. I won't tell you when we want to move in again. I want you to tell me when it will be in a fit state for us to move in, so call me and let me know, okay?
Would your reply have been...
I'll check with the painters and get back to you.
Then later that day call and say...
Next Monday will be fine.
Then, should your painter be a simpleton and incompetent with time and work attendance, you wouldn't bother to telephone me back and say...
Actually the painter has stuffed up and won't be finished until the weekend before the day I said would be okay to move in. That means you really ought to stay out until the following week.
Meaning, of course, that we drive up from Tauranga expecting to be able to move in on the Tuesday. (We're not stupid you know. If they say Monday, they mean they'll be doing "last minute things" on Monday.)
So we drive up on Sunday intending to stay overnight in abode choice number one until Tuesday (Mr O needs to be in Auckland for work on Monday). So far, so good. Mr O arranges for assistance to move our things in on Tuesday and two friends offer assistance which is gratefully accepted. On Sunday night we take a sneak peek at the place and notice the overwhelming smell of paint fumes. Enamel, you know. For the doors and trims. Standard Operating Practice. The builder is still onsite, which is reassuring. Apparently the painter took until the Sunday (and as it turned out, the Monday) to complete the paint job. The builder says he has spoken with the painter, who tells him that the house will be fine after a couple of days airing.
Okay we say. We'll see what things are like on Tuesday and then decide what to do. In the meantime we retire to our temporary abode and reflect on the house and information provided. Tuesday rolls around, and we decide that perhaps we should check with the paint manufacturer as the scent of enamel has not really faded away to nothing in two days of airing. Mrs O phones, is put through to customer services who put her through to the Help Desk who puts her through to the company chemist. Who then says that you really want to leave it seven days "just to be safe", although it might be okay sooner. Right. Seven days. That would be next weekend, then. Options are take it day-by-day, or just up sticks and head back to Tauranga. Desperation sets in. This is our third attempt to move back into the house. There is no way we will head back to Tauranga (even if it kills us), we will play it day-by-day. Each day is more excruciating than the last. We are unable to extend our stay at the first accomodation of choice - they have no rooms. We head to second abode of choice, but they only have room for a night. Move just up the road with the real hope of moving in the next day. Hopes are dashed by the scent of paint. Give up the day-by-day fight and opt to stay in abode number 4 for the next two days and move in on the weekend - seven days after the supposed final coat of paint. (Touch-ups not included.)
Well done you've made it this far. Welcome to our past week experience.
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