Where in the world does it all come from?

I found out yesterday that my new kitchen cupboards and benchtops will be installed next week. The thought fills me with great joy. Unfortunately, the promise came with a rider. I will need to empty said kitchen cupboards on Tuesday. In school holidays.

The thought fills me with horror.

We have only been in the Fibro three years. I did a massive cull of all kitchenware when we moved here. Why am I so scared? It's not like I've been randomly buying homewares to fill the space. No new kitchen appliances have made their way into the house (because I already have the best). Except for Cornelius the Popasaurus, but he doesn't take up much space.

No, the problem is simply this. I remember how hard it was last time. Before I even accumulated the jar collection. Before the beer cooler collection began to breed under the kitchen sink. Before the nine Christmas melamine cups and plates (one for all the nieces and nephews) took up residence with the Tupperware and other plastics. Before I decided I needed a zester, an extra colander and eight large white bowls.

Where does it all come from? And, more importantly, where in the world am I going to put it all when it comes out of the cupboards?

[image: I wish my jar collection looked as stylish as this strand of Mason Jar Lights from sweetteaclothingco/Etsy]

The Renovators (Fibro edition)

Sunday night in the Fibro has become all about houses. The Block, Grand Designs, The Renovators. It's a TV transformation fest. The only show we haven't taken to is Top Design - too many hipsters, too little information.

We've always been fans of home shows. Hence our addiction to Escape to the Country during the drought of the last year or so. But now renovating is back in fashion and back on the box. Which is all very good timing, as we are about to renovate our bathroom and kitchen.

Yep, the Fibro is getting a makeover.

It's not the first time we've renovated. We totally 'did over' our cottage in the Big Smoke, down to replacing the rotting floors, putting in the missing windows and knocking down the termite-ridden lean-to kitchen at the back. It was a big job, but we did it pre-kids and we had fun - mostly. I will always contend that you never really know your partner until you renovate a house with them. Only then will you truly understand the difference between 'bluey-green' and 'greeny-blue' as a paint colour. Not to mention the importance of finding the exact, right 'profile' for your toilet.

The Builder is, as you'd imagine, a great man to renovate with. When I was dating I had but two main criteria for the man I would love: he must read books and put up shelves. In The Builder, I found both. And how. Not only can he put up shelves, he can build the whole house around them. Love that.

He has quite specific ideas about our renovations. Which is a good thing because, really, the profile of the toilet is neither here nor there to me. But his exacting eye for detail means a much better finish in the end. At least, that's what I tell myself when he shows me the 750th potential toilet/basin/tile. But we have the same aesthetic so coming to an agreement is not generally that difficult. Most of the time.

Renovating a fibro house brings with it an added edge of excitement. Disturbing asbestos is not for the faint-hearted or the amateur. It should only be done with the help of an expert. Fortunately, I have one at home - he may look like a Teletubbie in his asbestos safety gear but at least he's a safe Teletubbie. And we'll all be moving out for the duration to my parents' place to enjoy the fruits of their own recent bathroom renovation as they travel north for the winter.

We are at the enjoyable phase of renovating. The planning and deciding. Before the not-so-enjoyable dusty, expensive bit begins. I think that's half the joy of renovating shows - you get to watch the transformation, without the discomfort, and with the added frisson of being able to say 'why would you do that? I'd never do it that way!'.

Wish us luck!

Have you renovated? Got any tips?

[image: What will the Fibro look like after the reno? Hopefully as cute as this one from In My House]

Can you renovate - and keep your relationship?

Yesterday I bought the new issue of House & Garden. I confess I haven't bought an issue in ages (despite having worked on the mag for many years in a different lifetime), but it looks great and... I had an ulterior motive. This month's mag comes with a Kitchen & Bathroom special attached. And I'm in a place in my life where that looks attractive (I know, I need to get out more).

One thing about moving into an older house is that you have a good idea about what's in your future. You know there'll be dust. You know there'll be tears. You know there'll be fights over whether a particular colour is 'greige', despite it's exotic moniker (calling it Tahitian Sand doesn't make it any less boring). Yep, it's renovation time. In my case, I can add AGAIN. Because, just like childbirth, I forgot the pain of the first time around and have signed up for a second bout.

The Builder and I have decided that this will be the year to drag the Fibro into the 21st century - probably kicking and screaming. New bathroom, new kitchen... the nightmare begins.

Last time we did this, I wrote a story about it (surprise, surprise...as with most writers, my life and everyone in it are all fodder for the machine). It wasn't about colours and benchtops and whether the paneled doors were worth the extra cost. It was about the insidious cost of renovating. Not the budget blowout (everyone knows you need to add a 20 per cent 'contingency' fee to any estimate), but the sheer stress of the whole enterprise.

There’s no doubt that renovating places a huge strain on even the strongest partnership. When you find yourself poring over colour charts for the 900th time that week, arguing whether to go for the Crescent or the Baroque or the Lancelot (who even knew that green could be called so many things?) and, worst of all, really, really caring about the tonal differences between the three, it can be an eye-opening experience. Are you aware of your partner’s preferences in tapware? You will be after you’ve been dragged through eight different plumbling supply shops and he’s still searching for “one with less curves, I’ll know it when I see it”.

Considering that many of us can get away with making about three decisions every day - will I get up?, what will I wear?, what will I have for dinner? - the renovating process is mind-numbing. Not only are you choosing colours, fixtures and fittings, you have to choose tradesmen, check contracts, decide if you’re going to oversee the work yourself, find someone to draw plans, decide how much you can spend (and try not to get too upset when you go over...) and the list goes on. Is it any wonder that we feel consumed by it – to the exclusion of all else?

And then there’s the question of taste: if you want to create a Balinese haven and your partner is picturing a New-York-style warehouse, you’ve got more than geography to sort out. One couple I’ve heard of got to the stage where he would paint the hallway pale blue every time she left the house and she’d repaint it cream while he was at work. Eventually, she did a final coat in black, just before she walked out for the last time.

Fortunately, The Builder and I have similar thoughts in interior design and decorating. We followed the rules - poring over magazines so we could show each other what we had in mind (rather than just trying to describe it), being prepared to compromise when one of us felt really strongly about something, and organising our space so that the dust during renovation was corralled as much as possible.

We managed to get through a full renovation of a brick Federation cottage in the city. Surely a basic kitchen/bathroom update in our nothing-in-particular fibro in the country won't be as stressful? Oh wait - we didn't have children last time. Now we have two.

Who am I kidding?