MADE IN HASTINGS - BLOG

November 3rd 2006

I’m sitting on Hastings beach in brilliant sunshine. There’s not a cloud in the sky which is a cold blue. But there’s still warmth in the sun’s rays that I didn’t feel walking down to the town from my house. It felt very cold at home.

Yesterday we had the same fine weather. Yesterday I was full of optimism and happiness. Today I’m fighting against anxiety and a desire to just sleep, all because my builder has a bad back. This bad back of his is recurrent which means I know, Steve the builder knows, the building firm know, that the problem’s not going away.

The last time was in was Tuesday. Today’s Thursday. As he broke up part of my concrete floor every now and then I heard him yelp with pain – he’d gone by two pm. Saying he’d see me Thursday and Friday. I reassured myself with the thought, “Well he’s got Wednesday to recover, then he’ll get loads done in two days.” But he hasn’t recovered over Wednesday. He won’t be in now till Monday. Then he’ll break up another piece of floor and his back will go again.

I can’t share my worry with anyone; that the house will never be habitable. They’ll say, “If I were you, I’d get a new builder, give this one his marching orders. If I were you I wouldn’t put up with it for a moment.”

They don’t realise it but there’s nothing as unsupportive as those smug words, “If I were you-“ They’re not me. I happen to like and respect my builder. He has a crippling mortgage and his wife left him recently. He’s also an excellent builder. And then I think, yes, but that’s all very well, Steve has central heating in his house, and a washing machine and cooker, while you have two convector heaters, one camping gas ring and a friend’s toaster. It’s been like that for the last four months, and there’s no sign of any change happening over the next four months. I’ve got a sty from not eating well, I’m battling not to put on weight again, because in the absence of cooking facilities and any comfort, I’m stoking up with scotch eggs and pork pies from the corner shop.

Steve’s back won’t get better. Certainly won’t if he continues re-building my house which first has to be partly knocked down. I see something has to be done. I need to say some serious words like, “I’ve worked it out; a day a week turns a possible three month job into taking nearly two years.”

And then another voice surfaces saying, “What are you complaining about? You’ve got hot water, a roof over your head, you live by the sea, have your health, three cats and the availability of Marks & Spencer sandwiches seven days a week. Take this opportunity to develop your character. Remember that book you liked Patience and Sarah, where they built their own log cabin. You wanted to be like them.”

And I did. I do. But I’m not like them. I can believe the experience will toughen me up but we all need hope. Even as I write that I’m slightly disgusted with myself because we all might need hope but don’t all get it. There are people hoping to get well, hoping to find a lost loved one, and all I’m hoping for is a miraculous cure for Steve’s bad back. For what? So I can make myself comfortable, then in three or four years time become restless to move again?

A few more people are on the beach now. I bet everyone thought because it was cold it would be cold by the water. It’s wonderful . I’m sitting on a Millet’s carrier bag. I’ve just bought a pair of fleece gloves and a pair of fur lined bootees in there. I am really lucky. I know that. I hope I’ve written my way through today’s misery.

I hate turning inland from the sea, even when its rough. My head state when I’m near it is my best state, not the miserably, angsty baggage, looking with despair at the hole in the ceiling.