The Teabag

‘A woman is like a teabag – you can’t tell how strong she is until you put her in hot water.’

Some people attribute that saying to Eleanor Roosevelt, and others to an old Irish proverb, but to be honest, I don’t really care who said it. All I care about is that after many wobbles and doubts, highs and lows, one step forward and two very muddy steps backwards, I find myself, towards the end of August, finally beginning to feel like that teabag. Stronger. More resilient. Like I’m finally getting a handle on it all. Which, looking back, I think I always was, but it’s only now that I’ve started to give myself credit for it.

And while on the subject of teabags, there is no longer a mountain of soggy ones left in the sink or staining the bottom of my mugs, because as of Monday the building work on my cottage is finally complete.

I can’t quite believe it. It’s a moment that, at many times, felt like it would never come; but when I did dare to conceive of it, I imagined it would be a bit like when you watch marathons on TV: all those athletes crossing the finishing line and sinking to their knees in gratitude, while being sprayed in champagne as the crowd erupts in cheers and applause.

OK, so perhaps I wasn’t expecting champagne, but perhaps some prosecco and a bit of high-fiving. A celebration of sorts of how we’ve finally got there, and what an amazing job they’ve all done. Ben, Sparky, Flood, Fetch Me and Carry Me – the whole messy, infuriating, wonderful gang.

Instead the reality is very anticlimactic. Ben and his team simply clear up their tools, load the cement mixer into the back of the van and leave with a ‘Cheerio’. Even the skip that’s been a permanent fixture outside the house disappears. And then suddenly it’s just me, Harry and total silence.

It’s the strangest of feelings. Having been living in a building site for what feels like for ever, I thought I’d be thrilled not to hear the radio blasting and the out-of-tune whistling, not to find plaster in my bran flakes, muddy footprints on my stripped wooden floors and grout down my toilet. I thought I’d feel elated.

Yet now it feels, well, a bit too quiet. And I’d never thought I’d say it, but it looks a little too tidy. That said, the cottage does look beautiful. In fact I can’t actually believe it’s the same one I walked into on that freezing cold, pitch-dark day last December. Downstairs the kitchen-diner is flooded with light. Full-length doors lead onto the garden, which is now bursting with colour, and when the sun shines you can push the doors right back. Even better, when it rains it’s like being outside in nature and, if I look up, the large sycamore tree provides a canopy of leaves through the skylights.

And while the back of the house is open and airy, I’ve kept my traditional snug living room, where I first spent those evenings with Harry when both of us were getting to know each other. A log-burner now fits perfectly into the centuries-old inglenook; this way I get to have a real fire, only it’s a lot less messy and more energy efficient. Plus, with the new jewel-coloured walls, lamps and a brightly woven rug from a shop in the village, it’ll be so cosy in winter.