By Arnold Jansen op de Haar

Here at home, the boiler is being replaced, and all of a sudden I find myself in an uncomfortable situation. This awkward state of affairs begins as soon as the workmen arrive. I’m never quite sure if I ought to offer workmen something to drink. Nonetheless, I’ve set out tea and coffee, but I don’t have any milk. ‘No problem,’ say the workmen.

Suddenly, I sympathize with the Queen Mum, who, during the last 30 years of her life, refused to have workmen around in Clarence House. (After her death, Prince Charles had to renovate the place to the tune of five million pounds.)

I also understand the people who, during extensive building works, board a ship to a faraway island to ‘escape from the workmen’. Because it plays havoc with the creative process, such as writing a poem or something like that.

Straight away, one of the plumbers is having his breakfast in the kitchen. He has brought in sandwiches. So I quickly retreat to my room. By the way, it’s rather unusual here in London for plumbers to eat anything at all in the house (my flatmate had ‘never come across it’), but being reconnected to hot water is worth the discomfort.

Half an hour later, from inside my room, I hear the workmen starting to demolish and rebuild. Every now and then I take a look. ‘It’s quite a job,’ says the senior of the two men, ‘especially making connections to those old pipes.’

Around twelve o’clock, the second workman asks if we have a microwave. Maybe they need to ‘warm something up to make it fit’. But, no, we don’t have a microwave.

After another half hour I smell food. I decide to check it out. One of the men is eating standing up in the kitchen. The boss has made himself comfortable in my chair to have his lunch. They’ve ‘heated up food in the shop around the corner’.

I don’t understand how people can be comfortable sitting in someone else’s space. If you do, you’d better become a dentist straight away. And I think about other very bad situations, such as ‘joining in the festivities at a birthday party’, and other things that are to be avoided. Never shit in friends’ or acquaintances’ homes!

But my main thought is: when can we have our lunch? I now notice that he has also moved some things around in the living room. Sulking, I retreat to my desk. Am I really such a little prince?

Maybe he has a very domineering wife at home. That’s a possibility too.

But it also reminds me of my father who, in these circumstances, would simply draw up a chair to ‘watch the work in progress’. In any case, he frequently went around ‘checking’. This speeded up the work in no time.

Later, the boss plumber informs us that the work will last not two but three days.

The next day, the same smell of food wafts in from the living room. My flatmate is away at a meeting. After some hesitation, I decide to ‘have a word’.

No, he’s always allowed to eat a hot meal in people’s homes. It’s been that way for the past 15 years, apart from objections due to ‘religious beliefs’. Whereupon I object that this has nothing to do with religious beliefs, but that my flatmate, who has lived in this country for 30 years, has never come across it. That, as the occupier, you were always given the chance to grab something to eat yourself. ‘We’re happy to leave for a bit,’ he said, ‘so you can eat.’ Well, he promises ‘to go out for lunch’ on the third day.

When I was a youngster, workmen who did repairs at home occasionally received a cigar after the job was finished. It really made those men’s day. But now that the work is finished after three days (a quality job!) I’m going out to smoke half a dozen myself.

© Arnold Jansen op de Haar
© Translation Holland Park Press