The demise of Figless Manor

When I first moved to America, eight years ago, I had never experienced storms like the storms I found in Connecticut. Of course, as everyone knows, it rains all the time in England, but it's a grey, drizzly rain, not the pelting, angry torrential downpours I found here, that regularly brought trees and powerlines crashing to the ground, that was so intense if you had to go out in in, you couldn't drive at any pace other than a crawl or you couldn't see anything.

The wind would howl, and our first house was surrounded by impossibly tall, skinny trees, which would sway ominously, and I would lie in bed, terrified that a tree would come crashing down on the house, because it felt like the house was made of paper.

The houses in which I grew up, in London, were made of bricks and mortar. In Hampstead we had a wonderful old redbrick Victorian, with three gables, that will likely stand there forever. In Regents Park we had a stucco Nash Terrace, and in St. John's Wood, a pretty Georgian cottage, that was alleged to have been built by the Prince Regent in the late eighteenth century, for his mistress, Mrs Fitzherbert. All of them were built to last, and I came over here, astonished at how fragile the houses seemed.

Early this morning, when it was very, very cold outside, Husband and I went to watch Figless Manor torn down, and all I can tell you is, I was right.

That house was built of sticks and cardboard. A couple of huffs and puffs, and down it came.

It was fascinating to watch, both exhilerating and slightly nerve-wracking, for now of course there is no going back, although we have revisited the plans so many times, making tweaks here and there, this latest time spinning the kitchen round to face the other way, who knows when the builders will actually start.

A quick word about builders. We have taken on a project manager, and if anyone out there is foolish enough to be building a house right now, I highly recommend it. They are an independent entity, beholden only to us, to guide us through, and protect us from the sharks who are circling, eager to take our hard-earned cash under the guise of being our friend.

We have met with a handful of builders. Many months ago, a builder who had been recommended pulled up at our house in his Porsche 911, Gucci loafers on his feet, with tales of his recent vacation to Parrot Cay. Can I just say that if you are a builder and you are looking for business, when you step out of your Porsche and tell us about your very expensive holiday, I don't look at you and see someone to whom I even want to relate.

Far from it.

I look at you and see nothing but dollar signs in your eyes.

And that does not warm the cockles of my heart.

But, we are close to sending the plans out to bid, and I cannot wait to have a home of my own, for my husband and I (I just can't stop saying it!), and our happy band of Smalls.