New Knee. New Life. Part 2.

Choosing to leave London was a very difficult one, because as I said before, I loved everything about London except working there and the soul-destroying commute. When two of my closest friends announced they were also leaving London in November to return home to New Zealand, I realised moving was the only option I had – my London life would simply never be the same without them. The majority of my social life was spent with them, I was very familiar with their spare room, we had the same taste in weird foreign films, thought about food every second of our waking life, drank red wine like it was going out of fashion, partied till dawn, adored traveling and loved loved loved the theatre. So suddenly the decision to leave the city seemed a whole lot easier.

I began picking up on other signs pointing me in the direction of the West Country. Work was better than ever with new studios wanting to get me in for freelance work; some close friends had upped sticks and moved to Wales (only 50 minutes from Bristol); and some other dear friends and my gorgeous goddaughter were moving to Poole (only 50 minutes from Bath). I would be closer to my parents; on the doorstep of my sister and family; and much much closer to the divine beaches of Cornwall and Pembrokeshire. And most importantly, all my London friends were incredibly supportive with most of them saying, “You will wish you had made the move years ago... when can we come and visit?”

Now of course came the painful stuff... no, not the knee, but the sorting out my flat, finding someone to rent my flat, and moving out of my flat. It sounds simple enough but if you have ever tried to find decent and reliable decorators, tenants and removal men in London, you will understand my angst. Tradesmen were referred to me and were busy, other quotes made my eyes water, and on top of everything I soon came to realise from numerous painters and builders sucking their teeth and stroking their chins, that a coat of paint was just not going to cut it... I needed to completely gut my ancient and dated bathroom and put in a new one; strip off all the peeling and cracked wallpaper hidden underneath several coats of paint; replace all the white goods in my kitchen; and only then could I re-decorate. I had to get electrical checks, gas checks, energy checks and landlord certificates, and I needed to find someone to do it all in six weeks. Ugh. Then, when I least expected it, my dreams were answered (or so I thought at the time) in the form of a man, working at my neighbours flat. Let’s call him Ralph, for that is the buggers name and I don’t care who knows it! Ahem.

Knocking and banging noises had roused my curiosity and I had ventured next door to see what was going on. And there he was... in tight shorts and a vest, bent over the bathtub. Promising. I coughed and he straightened up. “Awright?” he said, with a cheeky Essex accent, grinning from ear to ear. I immediately asked if he could come and look at my bathroom and possibly give me a quote. I was in luck... not only could he do my bathroom but he could do everything else in the flat AND he could start the following week! Amazing, a proper one-man-band, or as the workmen that came to fix all his mistakes a month later called him... jack of all trades, master of none, plus some other rather more colourful names that I couldn’t possibly mention here! I really thought I was the luckiest girl in the world finding Ralph. I trusted him to be in my flat on his own all week while I worked in Bristol, his quote had been reasonable, and he could do it all himself. Brilliant! Um, not so brilliant.

My gut instinct is usually spot on but maybe I’d eaten something funny that day because I couldn’t have been more wrong. Yes he was a nice guy but he also treated me like an idiot. He was used to decorating empty rental flats, with landlords leaving him to make all the decisions himself, from wall colour to style of taps to the model of fridge. And here I was with very clear views of what I wanted him to do, and a mood-board!!! Yup, a mood-board. I’m not sure he’d actually seen one of those before, because he shook his head at me and said, “Listen luv, forget the fancy victorian style taps and the nice white ceramic kitchen sink... Let me do what I do best. I’ll get something fairly close within your budget. Trust me.” I now realise anyone that says, “Trust me”, don’t. But of course I did. I left him on his own for the first week and then came back at the weekend. Every single thing in my flat was covered in dust, even though he said he would protect it all with plastic sheets; the bathroom tiles were put on vertically rather than horizontally (his response to that was that it makes the room look taller!!!); the bathroom taps, kitchen taps, in fact all of the appliances were nothing like the ones I had chosen; he refused to answer emails so the only time I could go through things with him was on the phone on a monday morning or write a detailed note... AND he didn’t start work till 10:30 because he said the traffic was a “roight mare!” any earlier! Warning bells you ask?? Nope, I was still deaf.

By the second and third weeks I was a complete wreck. I felt bullied and intimidated every time I spoke to Ralph. He sighed, he tutted and he rolled his eyes whenever I questioned anything he’d done, and would just raise his voice and talk over the top of me when he wanted the conversation to end. He wouldn’t admit anything he had done was substandard and refused to redo things that I knew weren’t right. I cried every single time I ended a conversation with him because I felt utterly helpless. Then, on the fourth week, I rang him to talk about painting over all my plug sockets (idiot) and he said he was on holiday. He had decided to take a week off to go sailing because the weather forecast was good and he didn’t think I’d mind. Oh my god. By now everyone was telling me to sack him but I couldn’t. I just wanted everything finished and knew it would be impossible to find anyone else with only 2 weeks to go. He came back from sailing, promising to have everything finished by the end of the week. I felt I had no choice but to let him carry on but I also didn’t trust him, so I came home early from Bristol on the Friday and discovered something he’d done that was unforgivable.

My sitting room had been finished for some weeks. My neighbour had already been kind enough to move all my furniture etc. down to my parents’ summer house, so all that was left were a few lamps, clothes and bedding. These were under a plastic sheet on my sofa with a big sign on it that read, “Ralph, please leave covered and don’t move. Thanks.” As I walked into my flat, early that Friday afternoon, Ralph was nowhere to be seen. I rang his mobile to see where he was and it went to voicemail. I texted him and heard nothing back. I stood in my sitting room and I just knew something was wrong. My sofa had been moved and there was a big dust sheet spread over the floor, taped down, which was odd because there would have been no reason to protect the floor as the room had already been painted. I began pulling up the dust sheet and noticed scraps of my bathroom linoleum also taped to the floor. I lifted these up and gasped in horror (well it was dramatic!). My beautiful wooden floor had an 8 x 2 foot stain right across the middle. It looked as if someone had spilled some sort of solvent on it and then desperately tried to clean it up, without success. I was livid. It was Ralph down to a T… mess up, cover it up and then not tell me. I rang him again and left a very calm, controlled but on the verge of losing it message (always the scariest). I heard nothing back.

By Saturday morning I had already found a wooden floor expert to assess the damage. He was a passionate Bulgarian man that took one look at my floor, fell to his knees, and caressed the stain with his hand saying in a small choked voice, “What have they done to you??” over and over again. I managed to get him off the floor and console him enough – with a few cups of coffee, some chocolate biscuits and some soothing words – for him to tell me the worst. The floor was ruined. The stain had been covered for too long, the attempt to remove the stain was a disaster and the attempt to re-varnish it was even worse. Ralph had done this to my floor and then gone awol. It was beyond cowardly. And it could only be fixed by stripping the whole floor, re-sanding it and re-finishing it. It would cost hundreds and it would take time. But I had no bloody time... my tenants (who I found through a friend of a friend) were due to move some of their things in the following weekend and I had 6 days to fire Ralph, fix the floor, find new decorators, carpenters, electricians and plumbers (for it became very obvious at that point in time that Ralph was nowhere near finished) and clean the place from top to bottom. I burst into tears, put a desperate plea on Facebook for help, and waited.

I love and loathe Facebook in equal measures but when it comes to asking for help from a large group of friends, it really is invaluable. Within minutes I had received a text from a old panto friend who gave me the number of a man who could help, let’s call him Mr Fix. I rang Mr Fix and he said he would come over the next day (Tuesday) and assess the situation. He had a team of workmen and he was sure they would be able to get things done in time. Phew. I had also left another message for Ralph asking him to come and collect all his things because his contract was terminated. Gulp. I then began the laborious task of packing up his equipment... I wanted him in my flat for the least amount of time and knew if I packed his stuff up myself he would have no reason to linger. I was dreading it. Even Mr Fix, a big burly man who would scare most humans, said he would come round if there was trouble because there was nothing he hated more than bullies, cowards and men who took the piss when it came to work! I loved Mr Fix. Meanwhile, my Bulgarian floor man was still almost weeping over the state of my floor but was doing his best to sand out the stain and re-varnish the wood without having to do the whole floor. I knew the stain would remain but I just didn’t have the time or the money to fix it. I would have to tell my new tenants what had happened and hoped they would still want the flat. I also hoped they had a big rug!

Ralph turned up at noon the next day. I had been pacing the flat since 8am waiting for him to arrive, thinking of what to say, how I would work out what money I owed him, terrified of his reaction. I had already paid him half the quote up front and now I was only willing to pay him another £1000 instead of £2000. I was so scared that he was just going to shout at me and deny everything that when he calmly came into my flat, looked at the stain on the floor, sighed and said sorry, I was slightly flummoxed. He had hoped I wouldn’t see it and could fix it himself. He admitted that was naïve. I began going through all the other things wrong with the flat and he just held his hand up for me to stop. He just wanted to be paid and leave and I was so unbelievably relieved that he agreed to the £1000 deduction, that it didn’t enter my head that I should have asked for more for the floor, or to check his builders insurance or anything! I know I know, I’m a complete idiot but I can’t begin to explain how knotted my stomach was and how many sleepless nights I’d had. I just wanted him out of my life and £1000 seemed reasonable at that moment in time. We shook hands at my front door and he said, “No hard feelings Juliet.” I wanted to punch him on the nose but I shook his hand anyway. As he wandered down my walkway he laughed and shouted, “I’ll be working down the road for the next few weeks so I’ll see you around!” What? The little shit! And I tell you, it took all the willpower in the world to not scratch his van or puncture his tire every time I saw it outside. Grrrrrrr.

Mr Fix arrived on the Tuesday with a posse of heavies, to assess what needed to be done. They wandered from room to room, swearing, mumbling and grumbling and then Mr Fix said, “So, the asshole didn’t get much done then did he?”, I felt sick. Half the rooms were supposed to be finished according to Ralph, but according to these guys, they were done so badly they would need to start from scratch. Oh God. I said I had 3 days and a small budget and Mr Fix said “fine”. He would give me two of his men for 3 days, cash in hand, purely as a favour to my panto friend who had recommended him (thank you once again JJ). But I was not to mention to anyone who his company was because, “If there is one thing I can’t stand, it’s having to fix other shit’s messes!” O-kay.

Kipper and Wayne turned up the next morning at 8am. Kipper was 60, had one eye, one knee and a heart of gold. He was so adorable and kind that I didn’t worry too much that he couldn’t see much and would have to turn sideways to see what he had just painted. I also didn’t worry too much that he had to hop up my ladder on one leg because, “My bloody knee was replaced 5 years ago and they made a total hash of it!” Oh great, just what I need to hear before knee surgery. But Kipper was brilliant and his paintwork was flawless and the only thing he needed to make him happy was Radio 2, chocolate and 40 cups of tea a day. Wayne was Kipper’s sidekick. 25 years old, 6’6” tall, skinny as a rake, hardly any teeth, and never stopped talking. He was hilarious too and had me in fits most of the day. They were a breath of fresh air. They were talkers but amazingly for men (sorry), brilliant at multi-tasking. By the end of the first day they had finished the bathroom and the sitting room, consumed two packets of chocolate digestives and half a box of teabags. Impressive. On day two, a request for fresh cream chocolate eclairs was made and I happily indulged them, and on Friday, I bought a large double chocolate fudge cake to celebrate the end of the job. And everything was finished, apart from a few carpentry jobs that were being done the next morning and about 20 small jobs that I had to do myself. My tenants were coming on the Sunday to sign the lease so I still had time to get everything done and clean the flat.... eek.

The carpenter arrived and I swooned a little. Maybe it was the combination of lack of sleep, weeks of stress and the fact that I’m a bit old fashioned and find a strong man with a tool-belt very alluring, but I went a bit pathetic and a bit helpless and I asked him to look at my list and see if he could help with anything else apart from the shelves he was being paid for. I know, sorry strong women friends, but needs must! And he did. He stayed for 7 hours and did every single job on my list, from fitting the fire alarm to screwing on door handles to putting up my blinds. He even carried my old fridge down 3 flights of stairs... one of the funniest things I have ever seen. I had forgotten to tell him that the fridge had been defrosting overnight but he picked it up with the door angled upwards, so it was fine. It was only when he got to the bottom of the stairs and began losing his grip, that he gave a loud groan and tipped the fridge the other way. The door flew open and a gallon of ice cold water and several frozen peas poured out onto his nether regions and down between his legs. It looked as if his waters had just broken. I collapsed on the stairs and almost wet my own pants I was laughing so much. And did the lovely carpenter ask for any extra payment for all these extra jobs?? Nope... just a date!!! Did I comply? Well that’s another story!

I spent the next 12 hours cleaning the floors and all the paint-splattered woodwork on my hands and knees. I say hands and knees but as I wasn’t allowed to put weight on my left knee, I had to sort of shuffle around my flat on my posterior. FYI, your bottom produces a much better shine than cloths and polishes! My tenants came round, ooh-ed and aah-ed in all the right places, were very sweet and understanding about the floor and the keys were handed over. Hurrah.

The only thing left for me to do was have my knee re-constructed. Something I was actually looking forward to more and more each day, even if it was purely so I could be put to sleep, not think about anything, and lie on a bed for a while!

To be continued…