So, we’ve been living at Everstead for about ten days now.
Not moving into Everstead. We covered that particular circle of hell already.
I mean actually living here.
And apparently ten days is long enough for the romance of buying a beautiful old house to evolve into sniffing kitchen cupboards, refereeing children, making repeated pilgrimages to B&Q and becoming genuinely excited about a new washing machine.
Everstead has very quickly stopped feeling like the house we bought and started feeling like home.
A slightly chaotic, occasionally smelly, permanently noisy home.
But ours.
Luca has spent much of the last ten days conducting important scientific research into exactly how many times he can wind Joel up before his patience leaves his body entirely.
The results so far are impressive.
I have become very skilled at recognising the particular tone in Joel’s voice that means he has already asked something six times and is now clinging to calm parenting by his fingernails.
Meanwhile Tilly has essentially claimed the upper floor as her own private apartment.
The room she initially couldn’t possibly live in is now being rearranged, decorated and furnished according to an ever-changing ten-year-old interior design brief.
She needed a wardrobe.
Then she didn’t need a wardrobe.
Then she definitely did.
Then drawers were fine.
Agreements have been reached and subsequently denied.
She has also discovered the joy of having an “other room”, which naturally became a den the minute Livvy came round.
So I think it’s safe to say she’s settling in.
And while the children settled in, I became obsessed with a smell.
Not metaphorically.
An actual smell.
The kitchen cupboards smelled grim when we arrived, so I cleaned them.
Then cleaned them again.
I wandered around sniffing things like some deranged Victorian bloodhound, convinced there was damp hiding somewhere.
Eventually we found the main suspect.
The washing machine.
Oh, the washing machine.
Mould around the seal, a distinctly unpleasant aroma and the washing performance of a bucket being gently swished around with a stick.
It has now been condemned.
A replacement has been ordered and I am embarrassingly excited about it.
Apparently this is 42.
You buy an old house and suddenly a decent spin cycle is thrilling.
Then there is B&Q.
I should probably just have my post redirected there.
Joel, sensibly, appears quite happy to let me be Chief Coordinator of Colour Schemes, which means I have been allowed to roam freely around Everstead deciding which walls should become dark, dramatic and vaguely Victorian while he largely nods and lets me get on with it.
A wise man.
The dining room has already seen several shades of green while I try to find the exact rich, sumptuous colour I have in my head.
At one point I realised the existing yellow underneath probably wasn’t helping matters, so I bought white paint purely so I can erase my previous paint decisions and make entirely new ones.
Our bedroom is heading plum.
The lounge and kitchen are destined for rich reds.
I have spent so much time staring at colour cards that I now have strong opinions about shades nobody else would even realise were different.
And somehow, amongst all of this, I have also become strangely domestic.
We put up our first washing line.
I washed Tilly’s bedding and hung it outside and felt absurdly pleased with myself.
I cooked bolognese in my new Ninja.
I have already started fantasising about beef stew when autumn arrives.
Give me another fortnight and I’ll be making chutney and referring to the airing cupboard without irony.
We’ve had our first neighbour incident too, courtesy of one runaway football and a man next door who was distinctly unimpressed by our existence.
The goal has been moved.
Diplomatic relations remain cool.
Fortunately the neighbour across the road introduced himself afterwards and seemed perfectly nice, which felt like the universe sending over a replacement neighbour experience.
There are little house jobs appearing everywhere too.
The chimney needs sorting before winter.
Two doors had no handles.
The Wi-Fi has discovered that Tilly’s bedroom is apparently another dimension.
There is an attic space we don’t really know how to get into.
And every few days one of us looks at something and says:
“What do you think we should do with that?”
There is always going to be something to do here.
I think that’s part of the point.
Everstead isn’t finished.
We aren’t going to move in, decorate for three weeks and declare it done.
It feels like a house we’re going to slowly make ours over years.
And already, only ten days in, there are signs of us everywhere.
Paint testers on the walls.
Children shouting upstairs.
Billie wandering around like she inherited the place.
Laundry on the line.
Food cooking in the kitchen.
Joel being driven slowly insane by Luca.
Me arriving home with yet another B&Q bag.
It isn’t the dreamy, serene first ten days in our new home I might once have imagined.
It’s much better than that.
It’s real.
And somehow, ridiculously quickly, Everstead already feels like us.