Tag Archives: Farrow and Ball

A Room of My Own

I have finally finished decorating my bedroom! Or rather I have finally finished the parts that I can do anything about. Except for the blind/curtains. And the wardrobe rail. And putting up some pictures. Okay, I have finally finished the big jobs…

It has been a long haul, mainly because my bedroom is an awkward loft space full of triangles, brick walls and corners and it not only took me ages to choose anything, like the ceiling paint (which, just to confuse you, is also wall paint)…

and the type of floor…

(one on the left? one on the right? I went for the one on the right) but also having fallen ill on the long weekend I was supposed to do all the work, I have since been squeezing in each job between work and prep for my interview with the UN. But it was worth it. Instead of primrose yellow walls and a filthy once-white ceiling (the picture below shows the room just after I moved in)

I have a rather sophisticated palette of dark grey and a sort of linen colour (called Clunch, I love that name).

And instead of a carpet so grubby that even the carpet cleaner told me to replace it not clean it…

I have ‘antique oak’ floorboards…

…they’re far from antique, but still! And, to crown it all, instead of a rather tired old duvet (I decided that 16 years of service was enough for any quilt, but particularly an IKEA one) I bought a new one, along with some rather spiffy white cotton linen.

Oh it was such bliss going to bed last night. I forgot all about the fact that the floor fitters took off several bed-legs worth of newly applied paint whilst manoeuvring the boards into place. And that applying emulsion to brick offers almost as much, or rather as little pleasure as doing a multiple-choice exam (all those little holes to fill in). Or even that I still had nowhere to put my clothes. No, as I sank into the White Company’s finest, I felt that, nine, no ten, months in, I’d made my room my own. It’s not perfect. But it is mine.

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Filed under DIM, home

DIM

I have a strange relationship with DIY. On the one hand, I find it vaguely thrilling that there are all these tins of different coloured paint, these shops full of tempting little brushes and tools, these huge weekend temples suggesting that even if you can’t change yourself, you can at least have better-looking finials.

On the other, I absolutely hate the idea of it, having spent much of my childhood, particularly the bank holidays, in timber yards, plumbing supply shops or kitchen showrooms. My Dad was a plumber and heating engineer and, since there was always either something to be fixed at home or a weekend side job on the go, I had a very close relationship with copper pipes and soldering irons from an early age. And it wasn’t a relationship I relished. I’m not sure there is anything more boring for a seven-year-old than wandering the aisles of a superstore filled with paints, flooring and, oh the joy, plastic bathroom fittings.

But then I bought a flat of my own, a flat that looks like it has not seen an update since I was that seven-year-old. There is woodchip, there is bad carpet, there is an old plastic loo seat…and suddenly I find myself inextricably drawn towards copies of LivingEtc, to Farrow and Ball samples and to the smart windows of favourite interior designers. Inextricably drawn I may be, but since I am also living on a rather diminished income, I must resist temptation and find other, cheaper solutions. Even Polish painters are a luxury right now.

Which is why, this week, I found myself in Homebase looking, with interest mind, at the contents of the paint aisles. Did I want emulsion or silk? Sugar soap or paintbrush cleaner? Wide or narrow masking tape? Could I, the most clumsy and impractical of bookish types, be transformed into the sort of woman who wields a 2-inch Harris without so much as a whimper?

Reader, I don’t know but, with very little work on the horizon and plenty of time to find out, I have succumbed to the lure of microfibre rollers and dust sheets and become a DIYer. Or rather, as a friend of mine – the sort of man who takes a wall down one night after his day job and then, deciding it doesn’t quite work, rebuilds it the next – calls it, a DIM-er. A Do-It-Myselfer. I have latex gloves, Farrow and Ball samples (some things are non-negotiable), a bottle of white spirit and no excuse. Here goes…

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Filed under home, London, my lovely and loved city, redundancy, unemployment