This weekend I was away from number 26. On what I call a retreat. Spending a weekend in a warm house, with carpet underfoot, and hot water on tap. My mum’s house. Work at 26 continued though, through the tireless efforts of my amazing other half, and his unsuspecting ageing parents.
Approximately 20 bin bags bulging at the seams with garden waste; sticks, rubble, bizarre plastic ornaments and random animal remains (probably), were whisked away to the tip.
And our three storage heaters. Those peculiar, money devouring, placid metal objects that gave so little and took so much from us in those early months in the house, where ripped from their innocent resting spots in our dining room, kitchen, and bedroom, and cast mercilessly onto a neighbour’s skip (with permission). We have their innards (thermal bricks) piled up in our garden. I’m going to turn them into a make-shift patio.
So our main heat-source is out. No excuses. We now need to make sure we have the central heating installed before next winter kicks in.