Home Improvements

Couldn't write so used The Paris Review's Home Improvements column as a prompt

I’ve been meaning to chip away at the paint on the ceiling for months. Left loose by the mould spray I’d aggressively deployed, the whiteness was starting to peel away above the shower and subsequently above the oven then by the window in the kitchen. I unsuccessfully ignore it everyday. 

Before that there had been a blown light bulb in the bathroom that remained unfixed for over a year. Someone stole my letterbox flap and I ignored that for a few days until friends urged me to cover the gaping hole in my front door. I replaced it after two failed attempts and momentarily felt euphoric. The lightbulb has been replaced but my aversion to overhead lighting means that I still shower in complete darkness. 

Earlier this week my therapist asked me to fill out a quiz about my attachment style. She asked if I knew what mine might be and I muttered something about the word ‘avoidant’. I imagine my home might agree. 

I live on the first floor of a 1960s council estate in De Beauvoir, most recognisable by its deep brown and pale yellow facade and the sheer number of flats that line Downham Road. Inside, my floors are dark parquet and the doors slide and the space comfortably houses one person, for a while intermittently two, but not anymore. It consists of four rooms that do not flow into each other but simply all lead to a small corridor made even smaller thanks to the bike that I refuse to replace even though it’s stuck in second gear and makes my quads burn even when I go downhill. 

How many people rent the same place for four and a half years? Of course there’s a stroke of luck (and privilege), considering my landlady is someone I know, and who considers me a good tenant thanks to my prompt monthly payments. Before this I’d lived on my brother’s couch in Archway, before that my childhood bedroom for a brief moment, and before that the shed that I believe defines me, even though it’s been over five years since I was last there. 

I tell people I am a peripatetic soul, which is just something that people who run away from their lives say; but really I hate change and I like my own space, which is why I’ve not veered away from the square meterage of my London flat for over four years. 

I wouldn’t have dreamed of ordering a sandwich to my door but I think about it almost everyday. 

Jackie and Paul live two doors down and I see them once a week. Jackie doesn’t understand why I live here because there’s usually someone pissing on the stairs or doing drugs. She met my dad and refrained from disclosing those pieces of information and told him she’s keeping an eye on me, with a wink. I saw her the other day with a loaf of bread feeding the pigeons. “Just hanging out with my mates!” she smiled. I get a Christmas and Easter card from them every year and they have no idea what the inside of my flat looks like. 

There’s a can of white paint – ceiling appropriate – sitting in a drawer that I ordered in 2022, just waiting to be used. Every time I shower or I cook on the hob, I look up and I tell myself I’ll sort it out tomorrow. Good to know that I’m consistent with my procrastination. 

I’ve spent the past couple of hours wondering why I avoid this very menial task, much like I avoid writing or sending an email. I thought it might be something to do with perfection – being terrified of the outcome being imperfect so I don’t even try. Perhaps it’s because I’m waiting for someone to paint the ceiling for – a double entity bigger than just my own satisfaction. 

Sometimes I think about what it would mean to own this little square of north London. The things I would do. Knock through the kitchen wall and open up the living room. Create a tall set of doors like they have in Copenhagen between my living room and bedroom, move the sofa to the other wall, place the plant in the opposite corner and replace the sink with a big rectangular one, a linen curtain hiding the wall behind it. These are things I’d dream of doing but looking at the peeling paint on the ceiling, I wonder if I really ever would.