Kelly Eng – writer

Here’s something I wrote for The Guardian on renovating. It’s not often you get a professional photographer capturing you on the toilet…

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We had to move home. It’s never fun, is it, so we decided to minimise the stress by finding somewhere close. We purchased an apartment fifteen metres up the hallway.

The new abode was, in real estate agent parlance, a renovator’s dream. Or, as others pointed out, parts of it resembled a public toilet. It needed a serious spruce, and we had 5 months to do it. Surely that was plenty of time, and there’d be many eager tradespeople ready to help us transform the apartment from ugly duckling to resplendent swan.

I knew moving, renovating and working with children would be challenging. It was, and many lessons were learnt which I will share in the hope of helping others.

Lesson number one is that global pandemics and geopolitical events need to be factored in when sourcing tradespeople. I was calling, emailing and practically begging anyone wearing a hard hat to take our money and swing a hammer. But property prices, COVID and somehow Russia meant that everyone seemed to be booked up until 2027.

When we finally found the last eight available workers in the state, the greatest challenge was coordinating them in a game of Tradie Tetris: if Roger demolishes the kitchen on Sunday and Stanley installs a toilet on Sunday afternoon, can Ken install flooring on Sunday before his son’s christening?

Having snaffled our workers, there was no way I was going to lose any, and so I started the ‘tradie snack table’. I kept it well stocked, ensuring that it complied with The Australian Dietary Guidelines (NHMRC 2013). Every evening, I’d obsessively scrutinise what had been consumed. Hot tip: the Carman’s muesli bars were most popular.

The second lesson is that over thinking will wear out your adrenal glands. In my case, it was white paint that drove me to the brink.

Much of the apartment was a sickly pale green, and our painter suggested going over it in Dulux Lexicon® Half (aka bog standard white). Before he put brush to wall, I thought it would be wise to consult the ‘Mums who Build, Renovate and Decorate’ Facebook page. There I learnt that if there are 50 shades of grey, there are 50,000 of white. Who knew that white could be too sterile, creamy, yellow, “throw” blue … What about the ceiling and cupboards? Snow Season? Cotton ball? After 90 minutes of reading posts about white paint, my psychological health could withstand no more. The painter applied Dulux Lexicon® Half and it looked good. And white.

Renovating really expands your social life and we became acquainted with many tradespeople. “Make yourself at home,” we said, and many did, scrolling their phones as they lay prostrate on our couch.

Our carpet layer felt very comfortable. After installing our beige cutpile, he called us to inspect his work. When my partner entered, the man was sitting on the toilet with the door wide open.

“It’s looks good,” the layer said, unashamedly mid-bowel movement. “It’s a great choice of carpet.”

Showing no emotion, my partner (he’s British) continued to converse politely about the cutpile’s plushness as the layer noisily completed his evacuation.  

The importance of effective communication was another key learning. For us, it was our entrances that seem to cause the most confusion. Let me explain. We have a front and a back entrance. Got it? Excellent. How then, did so many of my phone conversations go like this:

Builder: “I’m here.”
Me: “Great. Where are you?”
Builder: “Out the front.”

They weren’t and I’d have to scamper round to the back. The next day, I’d be more specific.

Builder: “I’m here.”
Me: “Are you at the front or the back entrance?”
Builder: “I’m at the front of the back.”

OK then.

After months of organising painting, carpet, hybrid flooring, blinds, lights and a kitchen, the bathroom was our final push.

According to the marketing concept of the “unattainable triangle”, you can’t expect speed, quality and affordability all at once. Well, our bathroom won on affordability. However, the drawback was a skewwhiff basin, a top drawer that occasionally fell on your toes and a toilet roll holder that offends me every time I look at it. Happily, the LED lighting is lovely – even our builder seemed shocked that something had gone well.

As the renovation wore on, we became haggard, embittered. I was even restocking the snack buffet with less gusto.  We just wanted everyone out.

There was one last thing.

The bathroom people helped us paint a kitchen wall. When they finished, my partner went to put the kettle on.

“Careful,” they said, indicating the wet paint.

Pfft, I can walk through a doorway, my partner thought. But as he did, the pressure of leaving a ten-centimetre gap on either side of his shoulders became too much. Somehow, he veered towards the wall and shouldered it, smearing their work. Was this retribution for the toilet roll holder?

“So sorry!” he cried.

The builders were dumbfounded.  Wordlessly, they applied another coat.

Weeks later we were eating dinner when there was an unexpected knock at the door. It was the bathroom builder. “For the children,” he said, giving them a Barbie Chelsea Playhouse. “Sorry for all the mistakes.”

The girls tore open the playhouse (RRP $55).  It was cute with a nifty slide and as I looked at Chelsea’s bathroom, I felt a little jealous.

She clearly opted for quality over speed and cost.

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Photographs: Nadir Kinani/The Guardian

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