It’s January. A time for making resolutions and vowing to be so much better this year. In the Fanning household, it’s time to return to what feels like the never-ending renovation of the house that we inherited three years ago. The house that was going to be our gateway to a country pile with dogs and horses, a lake and no neighbours. A house that has instead become a drain on our savings from selling up in Brighton and now looks like becoming our forever prison.
As I sit at my desk, ready to tackle my next book, I am met with the sound of drilling and hammering, along with language better suited to sailors on shore leave than the husband of a near national treasure.
The living room has now been entirely gutted and rebuilt. We’ve lost a fireplace the size of a small barn and there’s talk of the paint and plaster spattered carpet moving to a skip. There’s a wardrobe shaped box protecting a bankrupt sale sofa from Made.com.
Dust and debris
The rickety stairs that lead to our one liveable bedroom creak and threaten to give way. There’s a refurbished bathroom already looking tired and old thanks to the dust and debris of other projects.
I try to ignore the noise and focus on writing, but it’s tough ask when my desk vibrates. There’s no option of a quieter spot, the entire house is a construction zone. There’s nowhere to hide.
Every time I think I’ve found a rhythm, a particularly loud bang or crash sends me clattering down the stairs to check that wasn’t Mr Fanning falling from a height.
But somehow, despite the distractions, I get writing done. It’s not exactly the peaceful, solitary experience that most demand, but there’s something satisfying about powering through the noise and chaos and getting work done.
I know that when the renovation is finally complete and the Fanning house is once more a peaceful oasis, I’ll look back on these chaotic days with a sense of accomplishment and maybe even a touch of nostalgia. Until then, I’ll keep plugging away at that next book (or books), construction noises be damned
