Loan sharks and moan sharks
The bank has seen sense and denied us our loan application. Obviously, I am devastated. No more talk about The Extension, which was taking on epic, life-changing properties, as well as its mythic levels of storage possibilities and light-capturing capabilities. The Grand Designs-watching has been terminated indefinitely.
In that way of all building projects, we have hit major unforeseen issues. Buy an old house, they said; they are full of character, they said. In actual fact, they are full of insidious, undetectable future headaches. The budget is now being funnelled into specialist contractors who wear tool belts and haz masks, and The Extension and any of the fun aspects of the build — a trip to Ikea for a new kitchen, mainly — have been shunted off the menu.
What’s worse is that the stay in the mother’s house looks like it’s going to be extended; this is bad news for all concerned — especially as I have had to borrow a small sum of money from her.
Last week, I wrote about her tendency to ‘mumsplain’ to me; everything from how to load a dishwasher to the best way to brush my son’s hair is broken down in insultingly simplistic detail.
There is also an ever-growing list of ‘ground rules’ ranging from keeping the kitchen clean — totally sensible and understandable; to not storing coats on the coat stand in the hallway — utterly baffling. Surely a place for hanging coats is a coat stand’s raison d’etre? But under her roof, it’s her ground rules, and as my roof is currently in bits, I have to shut up and bring the coat upstairs every time I arrive home, and retrieve it when I want to go out.
Since the loan agreement, the mumsplaining has given way to more pressing matters, namely money matters. “Never be in regular proximity to your loan shark,” should be a more widely used maxim. Now I am receiving daily mini audits from Herself. “Is that a new top?” she asks, oh-so casually, noting its fine stitching and soft fabric. “Two types of organic honey?” Her eyebrows have disappeared upward into her hairline as she inspects my shopping bags, “You must be made of money.”
The other night I was musing aloud about getting hair extensions — I can’t have a light-filled extension, I can always have light-blonde extensions, being my reasoning.
“You can’t afford extensions,” she scoffed. “You don’t even have a roof over your head.” All the more reason to get extensions, I felt like arguing, to provide better cover from the elements. I stomped off to enjoy some pricey organic honey, muttering about ground rules.
I’ve spotted home-made honeycomb, which is very easy to make, having a bit of a moment in restaurants lately, and I’ve noticed Herself doesn’t moan about expensive organic honey when it’s going into keeping her in delicious desserts.