Almost a year since we first went to view what quickly became referred to as the “Disaster House”, we have finally moved in. The project that has consumed every spare shred of emotional energy and driven me to tearfully suggest cutting our losses and moving to a remote Pacific island is by no means completed. There’s a hole in the bathroom wall where a sink should one day be; open plug sockets abound; the dishwasher, it turns out, is connected to the electricity but not the water supply. (This, I am told, is harder to fix than you might imagine.)
Still, having been gutted and renovated to within an inch of its Victorian terraced life, it is now liveable again. And, more importantly, it is ours.
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