I was feeling angsty, so I started peeling at my wall. And then I kept going. With a wholly inadequate tool and in improper footwear. With bad lighting and no real plan. With only half a strong beer and no dinner in me.
It took a few weeks after I moved in for it to occur to me that I didn’t really need to consult anyone about this. This is my wall. I own it. And if I want to start peeling at the layers, then the only thing stopping me is… me.
These layers are topped in painted-over woodchip wallpaper – my hatred for which is only outrun by my hatred for removing it. The last time I found myself in this position, I said never again. Never again! would I bother removing woodchip from a wall on my own.
There is only one full wall of the stuff in the sitting room. Its bulges and buckles have been tempting me from the minute I walked in the door. And today I walked in the door feeling unsettled and unsatisfied. A good time to start tearing things down.
Physical progress does wonders, even if it means setting yourself up for a whole lot more physical progress when you get to the bit with Polyfilla and paint. Perhaps especially if it means.
The wrong tool
Also: gouging at your wall with a blunt razorblade is a lot cheaper than therapy. Woodchip is stubborn. There are a few layers of other stuff under it too. But sometimes one big strip banana peels off and it’s satisfying as hell. Which is I think what makes you keep going at it til it’s done.
This place is already home. That also happened the minute I walked in the door. No work necessary. I spend all day working on projects you can’t touch or hold or walk through. I spend a lot of time organizing things for other people. But this is mine to sit in and cook in and make work perfectly for me (and my future dog). I’ve been doing all the planning, but tonight I started the digging.
While I’m at it, I think I’ll start showing up a bit more around here too.