We have running water in the kitchen

- and not down the walls!


With the hard work and diligence of Nick Plumber, Shane Sparks and Sam Tiles and Plaster, the kitchen has come along beautifully.  Appliances in and functioning.  Floors finished, walls tiles and ceilings corniced, all ready for paint.  


And you know the days, weeks, months of agonising about the floor?  Well you're not going to believe how it was resolved.  Thanks to our open fire love, and the gradual emptying of the wooded underhouse hell, I managed to locate, on the morning Sam started, jammed in a corner, under a box of pool tiles, various kitchen wall tiles and paving stones, a glimmer of hope in the shape of a broken shard of kitchen floor tile. This in turn spurred me deeper, past old clothes, chicken wire, foil insulation, piled up slate, kindling and a vital colony of daddy long legs to an entire box of unsullied floor tiles.


Such a victory.  Such great timing.  


So the floor has been finished with matching tiles.  There is no patchwork.  There is no slate (the stuff we bought was too thick, anyway).  It's all matchy matchy in the best possible way.  And its remarkable that the tiles that've been down since the house was built haven't faded or aged in any meaningful way since they were put down.  Ugly then.  Ugly now.  But at least consistently ugly across the board.


Tomorrow, David (or is it John) Paint will start undercoating the bulkheads and by early next week 
the 
kitchen 
will 
be 
finished.


So, too will be the shelves in my room - which is almost incomprehensible.


It's hard to understand, when you think about the adversity that some people have to live with (I'm thinking about carting fresh water, no food, bugs, etc) that surviving in a house with no kitchen would be such a trial.  But my word!  For this family of anti-campers, the last twenty-something days have certainly been no picnic.


I don't want to whinge (actually I do, but I won't) but instead I will observe.  


The experience of living in the House at Porter Street, when there was no kitchen, was akin to the experience of living at Riverside, the house with no drawers, but worse.  It's all piles and shuffling. And that is, every, EVERY time you need something.  No task is sufficient in itself.  Everything requires the dance around the boxes, the pondering of where things might be, the consideration of where things may reasonably and cleanly be undertaken and whether on earth it's worthwhile doing after all.


There is no room in this environment for autopilot.  Tiring.


And now, thank heavens, the end is in sight.


Stay tuned for the big reveal...coming soon.

Kitchen Floor: The Resolution

I don't know what happened to my last post, but its disappeared while Blogger was off line.
hmph.


Rather then try and recompose, here's the photo.

There was also this link about how to kill yuccas from eHow.

If only I knew then what I know now...

Our plan for floating floor panels over the interruptions in the kitchen tiles were dashed completely on Friday at 10am when David Charming, the delightful morphing of Ang Christou and Anthony Koutoufides, came to measure.

Where the fridge goes.

Please note that the blue is the protective film

Where the long counter was made into an island.

I told him of our cunning scheme to fill these chasms with an element already existing in the kitchen environ:  brushbox timber.

Handsome did everything he could to talk us out of it eventually hitting on the thing which cut through our resistance.  

If the timber panels get soaked, if there's a leak, they will be ruined, bubbly, straight away.  And where are the areas for which these panels are proposed?  Under the dishwasher and under the fridge.

Cue the loser sound from "Family Feud".

He then went on to point out that the floor underneath the tiles is HARDWOOD.  Blackbutt.  AND what's more, the whole business to rip up the tiles, remove adhesive and sand and seal the floors would cost under $3K.

Can you hear my heart breaking?

Now the cabinetry is in, it's too late to rip up the tiles and polish the boards, isn't it?  If it was just me, I'd bite the bullet and get on with it.  But Mum's already a nervous wreck and I don't think she could go to that place and retain the semblance of sanity to which she is currently clinging.

The price will be living with the tiles  and patch job knowing that underneath there is gold Gold GOLD.

And if in the future, I do decide to lose the tiles, I'll have to factor into the costing a long, relaxing trip to Greece for Mama, so she's no where near the mayhem.