The stamping of heels

The Maria Theresiastraat. Such a pretty name. Kinda chic. How elegant to live on a street that is named after the Empress Marie-Therese; mother of Marie Antoinette. So, when G. and I moved into this house on 1 November 2003 we decided to christen her “the good ship Marie-Therese”. She was an honest, god-fearing, vessel that would carry us on our life’s journey with a merry band of happy children in tow. We spoke fondly of “a house we can grow into” and “it’ll be perfect” and “can you imagine how much the kids are going to enjoy the space” and “the structure is so sound all it needs is a lick of paint.” I don’t think we quite appreciated the journey of discovery we were about to embark upon. We were so sure we’d thought of every eventuality and had every thing covered.

The house seduced us when we bought her on that beautiful sunny, summer, evening in July. She had seen better days of course and nothing had been done to her in thirty years. She needed new electricity and plumbing. She needed a new kitchen downstairs – but budgeting for a new kitchen is fun. Right? Her ceiling roses winked at us as we entered the salon; the art nouveau stained-glass window in the dining room smiled charmingly at me; the large spacious rooms lured us in; the walled-in garden whispered gentle promises in our ear of fine summer evenings and long rows of fine smelling lavender. We were bewitched. She was a sleeping beauty that needed to be gently re-awakened.

Having lived here for five years now though I’ve become more hardened, more cynical, more smart-arsed. Oh yes, my friend, I’ve wisened up to what we have let ourselves into. We awakened her alright. I now, though, dub my house the "Maria Callas". Gone is all that tripe about vessels and merry children and sweet smelling lavendar. I swear I can hear the clicking of castanet’s as I close the cupboard doors, the stamping of high-heeled leather gypsy boots on the nineteenth century tiled floors in our hallway and the flicking of dusty red silk skirts as I walk into the dining room. Our house is not a “good ship”. She’s a mistress, par excellence.

Like all good mistresses she has expensive tastes. “Plastic windows!” one can hear her almost screech. “I will NOT have white PVC windows! What was good enough for the Pieter Coutereel* is not good enough for me.” So, G. and I obligingly go out and order fine, exquisite hand-crafted, wooden windows that are in keeping with our mistresses’ taste.

“A pine wooden chest in my hallway! Away with it – it looks cheap.” So, G. and I concur that although it did look so nice and sweet in our kitchen in Brussels when we were just married its just isn’t in keeping with the landing here. We all agree a stylish, retro Danish cupboard from the 1950’s would look great, or alternatively an antique French armoire - but we wring our hands over how on earth we can oblige Maria Callas.

“Cement bricks for the garden terrace – have you gone completely mad?! Can you imagine how tacky that will look.” So, G. and I opt for the dark grey slate tiles that look a lot my stylish and come with a much higher price tag.

“When you finally get round to replacing my soaked and leaking roof, do me the honour of using hand made clay tiles as originally crafted in the late nineteenth century. Cement tiles are so heavy, they go so green and quite frankly they look so nouveau. Put enough Velux windows in to light up my darkened interior. The guttering will have to be of zinc not roofing and replace the pvc cladding with the ornate carved wooden one underneath in the same green that you have chosen for the windows. It’s the one I wore when I first débuted this street in 1888. I have such a nostalgia for those days. You will have to paint it every six to eight years but that grey grimy pvc cladding simply has to go.”

As far as I’m concerned there is only one mistress in this house and that should be me. No! No! No! I simply don’t want to be paying those kind of invoices. Trinkets for me? Forget it. Ever since J. and his buddy Louis decided to spray half a bottle of my Channel perfume randomly around the house whilst I was bringing L. to ballet I haven't bought myself a replacement bottle. Money has to be saved to serve our mistress. I call G. up at work from Bordeaux to ask if I can buy a dress from Zara. "Can we afford it - shouldn't we be saving?" is his usual response. Yes, saving for Maria Callas, our exotic and sultry mistress.

Can someone please stop this woman. Can someone save us from this seductress. Damn it – G. and I work our buts off – is there no respite? We’re raising four children in this house. Its me that should decide the budget and not Maria Callas – but somehow she always gets away with it. She’s right. She’s far too stylish to settle for “cheap and cheerful”

Were we to put in pvc windows it will make our house look like a tart dressed up for a night out on the sea front. Put concrete tiles in the garden and she’ll look less than a million dollars. Go for concrete roof tiles and we’ll lower the tone of a great beauty. The pine chest, we bought so proudly in Brussels, has been moved. It just didn’t look right on our grand landing having spent yet another fortune on painting the stair-well.

Today though is a big day for us. Today our expensive new windows are being installed. We are within an inch of taming this shrew; within an ace of calming her ruffled feathers. Maria Callas you will tread the boards again in silks and satins and dripping in jewels. You will look stunning. G. and I may have aged in the process – but you, yes you will be a stunner once again.

There is still much that needs to be done, most notably and most expensively the roof – but we are close to completion. The spirit of Maria Callas still mutters and tut tuts occasionally about wonky skirting boards and some unpainted radiators – and she’s not overly impressed that her painted walls bear R.’s "kribel-krabel" on them. Nevertheless, the end is in sight and I may just be tempted to think fondly of my house again - viewing her more as wonderful vessel in which to sail rather than a temperamental mistress who I resent and dislike.

*The Pieter Coutereelstraat was the address of our first house. A lovely small, terraced house that I, and J and K, still think of with great nostalgia.