29th November 2009

For the past three weeks, I’ve been holed up in Bulgaria helping my stepbrother David “renovate” his house, though ‘renovate’ might be stretching the truth. ‘Systematic destruction’ may be more accurate.

Communicating with the outside world proved to be a bigger challenge than rebuilding it. The internet moved slower than a Bulgarian tortoise with a limp, and the phone line was as stable as a jelly on a trampoline. For the first week, both were completely dead. One rare successful phone call ended in abrupt silence after five seconds. Emails were only slightly more reliable; each message required as much effort as launching a weather balloon.

David had the bright idea of bringing a shiny new Sony notebook, which looked impressive, but had a keyboard only suitable for toddlers or contortionists. As a touch typist, I was reduced to one-finger pecking, squinting over the keys through a pair of Tesco’s finest reading glasses. I gave up and found his old, dust-encrusted Sony Vaio buried in a bedroom, and, miracle of miracles. It worked. Bonus: it played music. Sanity restored.

Meanwhile, Nan was entertaining Aunt Josie for the week. Genya popped in to say how much she missed David (someone has to), while Nan herself got her hair permed thrice and lunched out more often than the Royal Family. She also watched an unholy amount of sport, much to Josie’s chagrin.

Sue’s health continued its upward trajectory, proven by her looking positively radiant when I returned. She and I emailed daily (when it eventually worked), when Jamie let her use her own laptop, that is. From the tone of her messages, my absence made absolutely no difference to the running of the household, which was both heartening and mildly insulting.

She reported biblical downpours, flooding, and a country on the verge of aquatic extinction; even the weather missed me.

As I stepped back into civilisation, Sarah was first to pounce, waving her interim grades in my face. They were, of course, brilliant, so a cash reward swiftly followed. She’s still seeing Lee, and he’s due to visit soon, presumably for food.

Jamie is once again between jobs (translation: unemployed) and deeply committed to the task of choosing a new car. He’s still with Harley, though she was off at Centre Parcs with her family, probably enjoying not hearing about exhaust pipes and alloy wheels.

Charlotte’s been under the weather again with an ongoing tummy bug. A blood test revealed precisely nothing, except perhaps that the NHS might be running a secret blood bank. Despite feeling unwell, she’s been saintly, doing charity work, helping disabled kids, and now walking dogs for elderly hospital patients. It gives me hope that when Sue and I finally lose our marbles, she’ll have us house-trained in no time.

Bulgaria Renovations

David and I travelled to Bulgaria together; I assumed we’d be travelling as equals. Silly me. He turned up in First Class on the train. Apparently, that’s the level of comfort expected by property owners, whereas I, the hired help, slummed it in cattle class. Things evened out somewhat when he played chauffeur and drove us from Sofia airport to his place in Ritya. That made me the wealthy tourist and him the valet, I suppose.

The weather was mostly glorious: hot days, cool starlit evenings. It rained the first two nights, then cleared up, giving the illusion we’d be sipping beers in deckchairs. We weren’t. Apart from quick breakfasts and tool swaps, we rarely saw each other during the day. David vanished to one part of the house; I to another, emerging only to share tools, lunch, or a moment of despair over whatever we’d just knocked down.

A feral cat adopted us. Male. Possibly washed once in three weeks, same as us. David made the mistake of stroking him one evening and woke up the next day with a mysterious swelling on his back. The fleas had dined well.

Mincho, our Bulgarian plasterer, turned up most days. Top bloke. Minimal English, maximum enthusiasm for classic rock. He gifted us tickets to see King Crimson in Veliko Tarnovo, but alas, we had walls to demolish and ceilings to smash. Instead, I found a 24/7 rock station. After three weeks of Led Zep and Deep Purple, I reached a point I never thought possible: rock fatigue.

Mincho’s girlfriend’s father, a poorly looking chap named Vlado, came by to do the electrics. His style was… traditional. Think loose wires hanging from the ceiling. He would always disappear halfway through a job, leaving cables and sockets suspiciously ‘live’. The first evening, we had to do a spot of rewiring whilst in the dark to make things safe.

He would return days later, looking closer to death. He came again later to fix the heating system. He moved the expansion tank from the bathroom to the unlagged loft. Given Ritya hits –40°C in winter, I can only assume he was aiming for more work around January time.

The original plan was just to do the upstairs lounge. Unfortunately, if David stands still long enough to think, he’ll feel a strong urge to demolish something. It was inevitable that our destruction would move downstairs. Walls made of mud, straw, and animal muck come down easily, though you do need to shower after.

Each day began at 7 am (or 5 am if we were being keen) and ended around 9 pm. Lunch was typically egg-based. Omelettes featured heavily. One omelette contained ten eggs. We ate 186 eggs in total. I kept count. I now twitch at the sight of a chicken.

The few Evening meals we had in Dryanovo were good, if unpredictable. We’d often get dessert first, mains second, and what arrived was often unrelated to what you’d ordered. But it was tasty, and nobody felt the need to argue with the chef at 10 pm.

One “treat night”, David dragged me across mountain roads in a dodgy borrowed car with candle-flame headlights to Gabrovo, dodging stray horses, dogs, and phantom joggers, for dinner with some expats he knew. The conversation was a nice change from the usual “What shall we tear down tomorrow?”

Here is a list of jobs accomplished:

• Upstairs lounge ceiling, floor, fireplace, walls
• Two bedroom ceilings and walls
• Two downstairs ceilings
• Kitchen ceiling and bread oven
• A small forest of trees
• Rewired lounge, kitchen and downstairs room
• Installed security lighting and CCTV
• Built a secret tool room
• Caught and relocated a weasel
• Killed (some of) the woodworm

We worked well together and only disagreed twice. Naturally, I was right both times. He’s learning.

A Ghost Story

While pulling down the ceiling in the upstairs lounge, we dislodged approximately 2,000 walnuts, no exaggeration, a stash built up over generations of rodents.

One evening, while sweeping the debris, a walnut flew across the room and hit me square on the head. It hurt. It didn’t fall, it flew, sideways. I was alone in the room. At the time, David was working downstairs in the kitchen. I said aloud, “You’ll have to do better than that.” Brave? Foolish? Probably both.

A couple of nights later, while sweeping up the day’s debris from the lounge floor, another missile, this time a lump of mortar, whacked the back of my head. Again, David was downstairs. Again, I was alone. This time, I said nothing to my unseen assailant. I just swept up… very quickly. Whatever it was, it did not like our attempt at modernising the room.

David later revealed he’d installed a second-hand Petchka (wood burner) from a friend in the second downstairs kitchen. From the moment it arrived, strange things began to happen. Lights would turn themselves on, but only when the room was empty. Spooked, they removed the Petchka to one of the barns, and the strange occurrences stopped.

A Grand Farewell Scam

Our return to the UK began with a touch of drama. After a 2 am taxi to Veliko Tarnovo and a bleary-eyed 3:30 am bus to Sofia, we hunted down a taxi for the final leg to the airport. David, ever diligent, confirmed the fare in advance: 10 Levs. Fair enough. However, upon arrival, the driver suddenly developed memory loss and demanded 76 Levs.

With our suitcases held hostage in the boot, David stood his ground and refused to pay. A tense standoff followed until I trotted into the terminal and returned with a policeman. He diligently checked the driver’s documents and car; all appeared in order. He conceded it was a common scam, but frustratingly, there was nothing he could do.

Sensing the scam was reaching its crescendo, the driver cheerfully suggested we pay in pounds instead. Ever the dramatist, I recruited a sympathetic airport staff member and added a twist, feigning a heart condition and insisting my medication was in the suitcase right now. The staffer relayed this to the officer, who, suitably alarmed, ordered the driver to unlock the boot.

Boot open, we seized our bags like seasoned fugitives. David, not to be outdone, slapped 20 Levs onto the bonnet and, as we strode into the terminal, shouted over his shoulder, “Sue me then!”,  and with that, we vanished into Departures like a couple of budget Bond villains.

Thankfully, the rest of our journey was uneventful.

THE END
(And hopefully the end of eggs for a while, too.)