The Frumplingtons

Decorating sometimes seems to be a never-ending task. Things have slowed down even more recently because of a problem with one of the upstairs walls — just a little six inch crack, that’s all — which needs to be officially inspected and given the all-clear by a buildings surveyor. Once they’ve been and had a look, then we can get on and sort out the bedroom and the upstairs landings, but until then we’re confined to doing what we can in the hall and on the stairs themselves.

This evening we started work on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. If we’d given the job some thought beforehand, we could just have nipped down to our local charity shop and picked up a couple of cheap CDs: either Bonnie Tyler or Elkie Brooks would have been suitable. Or, failing that, we could have phoned Shana’s mother in Spain and asked her to send a tape of herself singing. Why? Because all three of the above have the kind of voice that could strip paint.

(I’ll pay for that last remark, I know I will. Shana’s mother — a bit like Whistler’s Mother, only less painterly — is supposed to be coming to visit next month. I think it might be best if I go and hide in the cupboard that day.)

But we had already bought a hot-air paint stripper, so we used that instead. And a fine job it did, even though we only did a small area this evening. There’s just one problem though:

We finished paint stripping an hour ago — and the house still smells like the Cutty Sark!

We’ve decided to use an orbital sander to clear the rest of the paint.

Of course, we could get Shana’s mother to breathe on it…

No, forget I said that. I’m done for now. This is Chris Frumplington, over and out.

Chris

Can there never be any escape from the dreaded Festive Season? Not content with letting their flagship teatime Aussie soap get so horribly out of synch with reality that Christmas episodes of Neighbours were being screened in March, the BBC is now — as I write this post — showing the 2001 film, Girl From Rio, a frothy feelgood comedy starring Hugh ‘House’ Laurie. Thing is, there are more than a few scenes in this film where Christmas trees, tinsel, seasonal decorations etc can be clearly seen.

Not only that, but, because I was a tad too slow with the zapper, we had to endure at least two bars of John Lennon’s godawful dirge, Happy Christmas (War Is Over). Could no-one have checked the seasonal content of the film before showing it? It just doesn’t seem right, not so far into the year.

A quick check of the calendar reveals it to be almost the end of May. I suppose it’s pointless to continue documenting these unwarranted appearances of Christmas on TV. I mean, they’ll be showing Christmas ads again in less than two months anyway, won’t they?

Chris

Note: Don’t forget to leave a comment if you want to be added to our Christmas card list.

Passing the TCM Evangelical Baptist Church on Lincoln High Street this morning, we noticed that something didn’t seem quite right on the front of the building. A simple case of the ‘t’ coming unstuck was all it was of course, but it did look awfully like an inverted cross for a moment. Too much exposure to Hammer Horror fillums years ago would no doubt explain my thinking that. A quick look at the church’s website soon put my mind at rest though: definitely none of those pagan goings-on there, I’m pleased to report, and, by the look of things, a decent number of regular punters too. Hit the big picture below with that mousey thing if you fancy taking a look at their site.

Chris

Update: 15th September 2007 — It’s fixed! The errant ‘t’ is now rightways up. Yes, thanks, we’re happy now.

Had a spot of decorating to do this afternoon. Just a bit of undercoat to put on the walls in the hall. We’ve been using something called Basecoat, because our walls are not particularly good, and I must say it does provide a decent enough foundation for any later colour you want to put on. However, it wasn’t so much the state of the walls that was giving cause for concern today as the fact that I might just have been taking the decorating a bit too seriously. If you feel you might have the same problem, here are a few signs to watch for:

How to tell if you are taking the decorating too seriously:

1. You mix your emulsion on a palette.
2. You stick your tongue out while painting.
3. You stand back from time to time and squint, looking at the wall with one eye.
4. You insist on wearing a beret and maybe even an apron when painting.
5. You sign your walls work when you finish.

Can’t get out of the artist mindset? Then pick a different artist to emulate: how about Jackson Pollock? Go on, pick up that brush and start splattering. There, that’s better!

Did I mention covering the furniture first? Yes, well do that too.

More home decorating tips coming soon. After we’ve scraped the paint splashes off the fridge.

Chris

There’s not many who get to see the inner sanctum at Frumplington Central, but here’s a quick glimpse of what it’s really like at, if you will, the ‘blogface’. Note detail of big beefy speaker at bottom left, ideal for serious music fans. Note — and this time, drool — at comfy office chair, with plenty of padding for those intense relaxation moments. Our new computer workstation, dubbed ‘the idlestation’, is clearly visible to bottom right.

You’re not taking any notice of the furniture though, are you. You just want to know about that copy of Steven Pearson’s 1972 classic, Wings of Love, don’t you? It’s very us, don’t you think? You know: timeless, fascinating, stylish. Yeah, I know it’s very Seventies as well, but it goes well with our leopard print sofa covers, which just happen to be out of shot in this photo.

Oops, cat’s outta the bag now!

Chris

No-one is immune to other people’s incompetence and idiocy; not even us. So the following may not be all that surprising. I would have written about it sooner though, except I wanted to find a way to get my point across without, if possible, mentioning any particular names, because, to paraphrase The Great Thatcher, certain people and organizations do not deserve to be given “the oxygen of publicity”.

They know who they are.

You will probably guess who I’m referring to pretty quickly when I say what happened this morning: we received an incorrect gas bill. Long story short: we have changed our gas supplier and the bill we got today was the final one from the previous supplier.

The meter reading they gave on the bill was ten times what it should have been.

Fortunately, and due in no small part to Shana’s persistence, patience and people skills, the matter was soon resolved.

I must, of course, leave it to you to work out who our previous suppliers were. But please note, the title of this post is for entertainment purposes only and should not be taken as a clue, however arcane, as to their identity.

Just so as we’re all clear about that.

Chris

It’s been warm and sunny here all afternoon, but the view from our window still looks as if we’re in the middle of a blizzard. It’s not one of those freak weather events though: just hundreds of what we assume to be flower or tree seeds floating on the breeze, all white and downy and each one doing its damnedest to get in here and settle all over the sofa. The funny thing is, plants have always propagated like this but we’ve only become fully aware of it since moving here in March and getting away from all the traffic where we used to live. It really is incredible how such a relatively small change in our environment has made such a big difference to our perceptions.

The birds are enjoying the current balmy spell, and we are being treated to the most wonderful all-day concert of trilling and warbling. There are so many excellent singers out there — who needs to pay nearly a thousand quid for Streisand tickets when you can hear these little fellas for free? It would be nice to be able to put names to some of the songs though; eventually we’ll probably give in and send off for one of those birdsong CDs. Actually, that’s just given me an idea: if you have neighbours that you can’t stand, why not get yourself a birdsong identification CD? You can put the disc on, turn the knobs on your stereo up to 11 and give next door a blast, and there’s no way they’ll ever be able to prove it was you and not the real birds that were disturbing their afternoon nap. Dastardly maybe, but brilliant, you have to admit.

Chris

Last Tuesday we faced a difficult decision. We wanted to put up a curtain rail. We drilled. We hit rock. We threw down our tools in despair.

“We’ll have to get a man in,” said Shana. And so, after ten minutes’ surfing through the phone book, we arranged to get someone from Rent-A-Gent in Lincoln to come and do the job properly.

This afternoon, by four o’ clock, we had the rail we wanted. Two rails in fact. Installed for a very reasonable price. And beautifully straight they are too. Our animal print curtains are back up and can now be seen in their full glory, rather than hanging limply from the horrible plastic curtain track they were on before. Our new floor length red velvety drapes are also up at the front windows. The place is starting to look quite smart.

The problem we had last week with this seemingly simple DIY job turned out to have had a very simple cause: my hammer drill is, alas, not powerful enough. It is, you might say, positively feeble.

Shana will now lead the singing, accompanied by the Frumplingtons Chorale, and me on bongoes. There will be three verses of “Chris is using puny tools/Doo-dah…Doo-dah/Chris is using puny tools/Doo-di-doo-dah-day…”

There will then be a whip-round to raise cash to buy me some new DIY gear. This time there will be no messing: I shall be investing in what I believe is referred to as ’serious kit’; starting with a bigger spirit level, because the one I use at the moment is about the same length as my little finger and, as Shana is fond (perhaps a bit too fond?) of pointing out, resembles the sort of implement normally found as a prize in Christmas crackers.

Chris

So, what’s to buy? Well, there’s a huge — and ever-growing — selection of books. Plus some cutesy, fluffy bears. And that’s just for starters. Go on, buy our stuff. You know you want to.

There was nothing much on telly last night, but, as usual, we were quite capable of making our own fun.

“I know!” we chimed. “Let’s make some flatpack furniture, difficulty level six.”

(Did I say ‘fun‘? Damn, I must be losing it!)

But no matter how tough the decision, once we’ve made our minds up we always follow through. So last night we built our new home… READ MORE >>