CHANGING ROOMS

Remember that TV show way back when, Changing Rooms? Everyone watched it because it was the first of its kind, blending together the genres of home improvement and family fortunes-esque game shows. Two families agree to decorate a room in each other’s houses in 24 hours, enlisting the help of the most flamboyant interior designers the BBC could find. At the time this meant Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen, a not-gay toff who wore lace cravats and velvet suits. He also pronounced “suits” as “syoots”.

My moving experience seemed to be just as chaotic. I had the most amazing help from a couple of guy-friends, who didn’t complain when they had to haul too many crates of shoes and books up three flights of stairs. They didn’t complain when a bag of women’s undergarments split and trailed through our small but bustling town high street. They were wonderful.

When I moved in, I had the “changing rooms” experience. I had to transform this as quickly as possible:

 
The dark walls meant that any number of undercoat a would have to be slapped on the walls and would need to dry quickly if I was going to finish. How did Lawrence do it? Luckily I had help, and we painted for hours on end, listening to Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant’s radio show, and talking through the facts of life. 
I got sick. 

We ran out of paint.

I had to prepare a relief society lesson.

The walls mysteriously oozed moisture.

Eventually I pulled together my zen-den.

  
   
   
  
Now I live with three boys. Men, excuse me. It’s all very New Girl– and I’ll say that I’m actually really in love with it so far. I’ve been living with girls for eight years now, and while I’ve enjoyed that non-stop sleepover, it’s nice to come home to boys who try to get me to watch the footie. Or try to get me to bake while they watch the footie. 

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