Running Water

Two weeks into our new life in Shoreditch and I am starting to feel the same rage my mother used to express midway through family camping holidays. ‘Going rough’ is all very liberated and organic in theory, when discussed over a large glass of rioja on a plush sofa in a friend’s centrally heated home. But, as in my youth when we would find ourselves stranded under sodden muddy canvas with dog shit on our shoes and the nearest pub a forty minute car drive away, the postmodern glamour of slumming it wears off after about three hours.

Fourteen days have passed and it feels as if Bob the Builder has made no progress at all. He has of course, but not anywhere that it makes an iota of difference to our comfort levels. The skirting boards are in. Whoop. I’m still sharing a double mattress with Jax on the floor, her antique bed from France having sunk on the ferry at Newhaven and me having had more thwarted dates with bed vendors on Gumtree than a middle-aged man trying to get laid on Dating Direct: they all advertise themselves as sure things and then they don’t return your calls. Our single life of careless liaisons and romantic misadventures has temporarily stalled. Even if we had our own beds and managed to lure a chap back to the building site, it’s not like we could hang a hat on the door to warn each other of the impending liaison. Because we still don’t have doors.

And the shower is still not plumbed in. It is sitting in the wet room, all white tiles and grey grout and sexy green slate flooring, tempting me like a siren on the rocks: you can look but you sure as hell can’t touch. Every morning it’s the same. One of us dresses while the other guards the door from Lee the Pessimist and Darren the Ridiculously Fit Plasterer. Actually it’s Lee more than Darren who tries to catch a glance. Not surprising I suppose; Darren probably has a harem of wives back at his semi-detatched in Plumstead, just panting for him to return home and utter the words, “It’ll be a couple of hours before that goes hard so don’t touch it just yet.” (he was talking about the plaster in the hallway but he managed to send us into a minor frenzy; we were hungover and had been watching a Jude Law movie on my laptop so I suppose our reaction wasn’t surprising.) Lee on the other hand, has the advantage of youth over Darren, but none of the charisma, chat or physique, so he seems to satisfy himself with Nuts magazine, the News of the World and peering round the doorframe in the mornings asking if we want a cup of tea. We always decline. Then, each morning, is the Building Meeting. Jax writes copious lists for these meetings and reads them out to our team of three like a General marching into battle. Every day Bob tells her that her expectations are too high, that most people spend a year renovating a property, and that it’s one small step at a time. Jax nods gravely, eyes welling up. She doesn’t really do small steps, and certainly never one at a time. I am more realistic. I ask for a door. There is normally some sort of showdown, followed by a consolatory cup of tea and a Hob Nob, and Jax thanks everyone for working so hard. Then we both go off to the gym to use the shower. I get gift points every time I swipe into my gym. I haven’t been on the treadmill in months but I am told today that my daily shower visits mean I am now eligible for a free Clarins facemask. I nearly weep with joy on the gym receptionist’s shoulder. It’s the simple things that affect you when you’re trying to build a house, I tell her.

Working late tonight, I arrive back at the flat at 9pm to find Jax, Bob, Lee and Darren sat on pots of paint in the living room lit by tealights, stonkingly drunk. It’s a big day, Jax tells me. The boiler is in, the water is running and it’s hot. I pause. Does this mean what I think it means? I go to the wet room and stroke the pipe leading from the achingly trendy industrial showerhead all the way down to the tap. I turn the dial. Water comes gushing out. It is warm, now it is hot. I am overwhelmed with the purest, most ecstatic form of joy, an emotion I haven’t felt since I scored my first and last hockey goal from the left wing in the C Team under 16s County Finals. I leave the water pouring and run back to the living room. Bob looks like a proud father. Even Lee the Pessimist is smiling. Darren the Plasterer is truly plastered. He puts a hand on Jax’s knee. She doesn’t move it. They are all grinning up at me.
“What?” I ask.
“Did you notice that not only can you shower, but you can shower in private?” Bob replies. Lee looks slightly glum at this point.
I go back and look again. There is a door, on a hinge, that opens and closes. I move around the flat, gloriously opening and closing each door to each room. It is a truly tremendous day. Darren is seven Stellas down and in the mood to show off. He asks Jax if she’d like him to accompany her for her first shower, gives her no time to answer, throws her over his shoulder and carries her into the wet room. Bob, Lee and I cheer and follow in a kind of conga line. Everybody dances into the shower. I realise at this point that I am sober, so desist from the group bathtime and stand back to watch. They all hop around for a few seconds then Bob accidentally hits Jax round the head and she, being mildly claustrophobic and incredibly drunk, begins to panic. The men pile back out and give Jax room to breathe. We all whoop and cheer again to keep the spirit of the party going. Darren realises that it’s late and his missus won’t be happy. Lee is feeling a bit queasy and Bob says he’s getting too old for too much fun. They change out of their wet work clothes and into their civvies, give us both a kiss and wobble out of the front door. Jax and I bed down as usual on the floor, but this time we close the bedroom door, and dream of hot showers in the morning. One small step for Bob, one giant leap for the girls.