Well, this week I can report with a fair amount of excitement that our new kitchen is under way ... at long last.
And not just a new kitchen, but a new utility room (well, more of a utility corridor actually, as is the kitchen. Think tenement galley kitchen and you get the idea. With a galley utility tacked on the back of it).
For one kitchen/utility user to pass another has up until now involved having to turn sideways and sidestep round each other ... good practice if you want to play rugby for Scotland, but infuriating otherwise.
Oh, how I have envied those families in the adverts for new kitchens, four of them using the same kitchen at the same time. Four of them! And they have things like islands and breakfast bars. Oh, the sheer vastness of their kitchens, like a Kansas prairie.
Since I moved into Shoogly Towers I have hated this kitchen, and to a lesser extent, its utility brother. Both were installed somewhere between 1560 and 1700, I reckon.
Both were quality products in their time, when Magnet was Magnet & Southern, Chirpy, Chirpy, Cheep, Cheep was probably number one, and Mars bars cost a groat.
And both were definitely designed by a man, who was also possibly a pyromaniac. I assume the designer was male as the kitchen has the same amount of useable working space as your average chopping board.
I have become so adept at preparing meals for five in this teeny space that I would be a shoe-in for a job at Ikea.
And in the utility, health and safety were out of the window with the caravan-style two-burner gas hob, which was to be run off bottled gas (just like a caravan hob) – but with the gas being kept in the kitchen, under a non-vented floor cupboard. Super-safe.
Needless to say, as we are not pyromaniacs, we have never used this ‘facility’, which we can only presume was installed by the previous owners as a back-up for the inevitable winter power cuts which happened with irritating regularity when Adam was a lad. However, the bottled gas did come in handy for the caravan, which has now become our oven on wheels.
Friday night is always pizza night, or always was pizza night, I should say. Since the week ending June 20 (not that I have been counting or anything) we have had no oven. Until, that is Georgina the caravan came home with us two weeks ago.
Since Georgina’s arrival, pizza night had resumed, albeit on a smaller scale. We have had to downscale from whopping, bin-lid pizzas to the titchy kiddie pizzas, as the caravan oven is considerably smaller than a domestic oven.
And cooking pizzas in the caravan does mean that, by the time I have lifted them out of the oven and transported them up the drive and into Shoogly Towers, they are considerably less hot than when I started my trek. It also means I have to run the gauntlet of three greedy dogs, milling about my legs, circling me like sharks round a diver, waiting for me to stumble and shed my load.
The first utility cupboards are now built and hung, and some of the old kitchen has gone to a new home via the excellent Facebook page, Free Stuff in the Scottish Borders.
No turning back now, I say, as I mentally punch the air.