The Fenbulletin’s a bit later than usual today. Largely as I couldn’t get my arse out of bed at four in the morning for the fifth day (almost) running. Yesterday, as befits our new status as media whores, the day started with a quite substantial drama. Six in the morning, supping an extra strong coffee and trying to drag Rich out of his chintzfixia slumber, we heard a pop and then whoooooooosh. It sounded like a pipe bursting somewhere in the van. It sounded like a pipe bursting, because it was a pipe bursting.
Handyman Bob (that’s me) tripped out of bed and dived into the cupboard that is our bathroom (it’s actually an en-suite but you can’t open the en-suite door owing to our bed being in the way) and assessed the damage by opening the cupboard under the sink. Small water feature contained only by the cupboard doors. So I closed the cupboard doors, dived out the van in my pants, thanked our lucky stars that we don’t live in a busy cul-de-sac and turned off the hose.
Ordinarily, this wouldn’t be an urgent problem. I’d just call a man out who knows about plumbing. However, the television people were due to turn up in an hour and a half and I really didn’t want my debut ruined by looking like a total bag of shit. I’m not vain, as people who know me will attest and I don’t really do the whole hair and make-up type stuff. However, the previous day I had been, er, glowing, shall we say. Having humped the new knapsack sprayer on my back through the undergrowth that is our garden (and filled it to the brim – 16 litres, or, the weight of a large midget), wielding my machete, and fallen into bed exhausted, I probably smelt better than an aged French cheese, but only marginally. Lucky Richard, I’m quite a catch.
Richard trotted off, washbag in hand, to Jimbillybob (remember him – ironed underpants) and Loo’s utterly horrible, zillion pound mill, complete with fluffy towels and bathrooms that would put the Savoy to shame. He was busy driving exotic Italian supercars (read all about it in evo next month) and I was grubbing around underneath our ‘van. Still, a quick trip to Wickes (fortunately, it opens at 7.30am) and I fixed the ‘blow’ not only in time to wash for the telly people, but to have another extra strong coffee before they arrived. And do my hair and make-up 😉
So the telly people are lovely. Not sure Mark (on the camera) was too keen on having his photo taken for the blog but people in glass houses and all that. Simon, the presenter, used to be on Brookside but I didn’t recognise him because we never watched it. He loved the house – well, that’s what he said to our faces, asked us a few questions, waxed lyrical about how derelict it is, stood on a pile of rubble in the middle of the triffids and asked us where the kitchen sink was going and then disappeared in a taxi. We liked him, a lot. The film crew will be back regularly over the next few months to see the progress of the build, but in the meantime, I’ll be negotiating some discounts. Nothing like ‘as seen on tv’ to bolster sales 😉