Demolition work on the kitchen had been halted when we realised that the local dump was closed on Monday and only open for a half-day on Tuesday. We would also need to borrow BF’s trailer to take away the debris, and we sensibly decided not to create any further mess until we had a realistic chance of cleaning up. Mr and Mrs F, however, were in the process of demolishing their leaking shower room, so we would just have to wait.

The great day dawned on Wednesday. John and I were up with the larks and, having consumed a suitably energy-rich breakfast of bacon, eggs, fresh croissants and coffee, we laid into the second concrete worksurface with vim and vigour, a couple of meaty cold chisels … and an angle-grinder. John then left to collect the trailer, leaving me to bulldoze the ruins. Never under-estimate the destructive power of a woman with PMT and a club hammer!

Having bagged up the rubble and cleaned the floor, we stood back and admired our handiwork. “Thinking about the wiring work, what are we going to do about the damage to the tiles?”, said John. Now, I should explain at this point that the concrete units were not our kitchen’s only deficiency. The original owners had installed just one, single, power point at worksurface height. Yes, this kitchen was truly a relic from a by-gone age. An age of mangles and wash-boards, cheese safes and larders, when gyms were for boxers, petrol was leaded and global warming was unheard of. Women maintained their fitness beating carpets and kneeding bread, and no-one worried about the shape of their butts.

In fact, I wonder what modern appliance necessitated the installation of this single power socket. Some labour saving device, perhaps? You can imagine the discussion between Jose and Maria:

Jose: “Mi cariña, look what I have bought you.”
Maria: “How lovely, cheri (Maria spoke better French than Jose). What is it?”
Jose: “It is a spin-drier. You put the washing in it and it draws out the water like a mangle.”
Maria: (Opens the lid and looks into the empty machine) “It doesn’t look much like a mangle to me. How does it work?”
Jose: (Proudly spins the drum with his hand to demonstrate)
Maria: “But Jose, where is the handle?”
Jose: (Shows Maria the electric cable) “It’s electric. You need to plug it in.”
Maria: “Plug it in? To what?”

Jose picked up his well-thumbed Spanish DIY book, and hastily installed a socket. Maria was delighted with her drier and it didn’t matter that Jose wasn’t the world’s greatest electrician. It worked, after all. Being female, she probably pointed out that the electric cable looked a bit ugly where it stuck out of the wall a bit at the bottom, but was satisfied when Jose hid it with a thick dob of brown-coloured wood filler …

Anyway, I digress. Looking at the floor to ceiling tiles (Jose was an exceptionally fine tiler), our thoughts turned to the electrical work. In addition to several extra power points for the kettle, microwave, mixer, ice-maker, etc., we would need special sockets for the oven, hob and dishwasher. The electrician had warned that some tiles would likely be broken in the course of the installation. “Why don’t we take them all off?” I said, rashly. To which John replied, “You can’t be serious”, or something less polite. Nevertheless, on Thursday, John and I set to work removing about 5m² of tiles. Despite wearing long sleeves, thick gloves and goggles, both of us found that by the time we had finished we had picked up a number of cuts to the inside of our wrists. It looked as if we had been attacked by a couple of rabid kittens!

We washed and patched ourselves up as best we could, had a bite to eat, and took the debris up to the dump.

Now, regular readers will remember that I previously mentioned that M. Dufour, our electrician, has a habit of catching us on the hop, turning up, like the Spanish Inquisition, when we least expect him. At our last meeting, M. Dufour had asked us to give him a call when we had done the demolition work and put up the rails for the plasterboard lining. He envisaged being able to start within a couple of weeks. But, on our return from the dump, we were bearly inside when the doorbell rang. On the doorstep was M. Dufour with two young electricians. “We are starting tomorrow morning, ca va?”