Author in a tight spot

Writers have been known to adopt desperate measures to get a little peace and quiet. But though my house has never been more full of people – small children with snot and temperatures, an au pair, a recuperating parent with a bewildering pharmaceutical regime, and an endless parade of tradesmen – that’s not what I’m up to in these photographs. Things aren’t that bad, not quite.

I’m actually in the process of fitting insulation beneath a section of roof, rendered highly inaccessible by a recently added stud wall within. Why my Albanian builders (and their British overseers) didn’t do this for me, before the stud wall was built, is for them to explain. But, fed up with corner-cutting and delay, I decided to let my friend Heiko, who knows an immense amount about this sort of thing, take on the job instead. The only problem was that Heiko – who was stuck underground for hours during the 7/7 terror attacks, in a packed rush-hour train – suffers from bouts of claustrophobia. So I decided to help. It turned out to be hot, dirty, suffocating work, but strangely satisfying once completed – not that I’m planning a second foray any time soon.

Actually I’ve always liked the idea of writers having a manual trade, or at least being good with their hands. The notion of the novelist as a pure intellectual, spinning tales in the splendid isolation of a rural retreat, is unattractive to me. I like my artists to get their hands dirty, and to interact with the physical world as directly as possible. That’s probably why Bruno Krug, the central character in The Valley of Unknowing – it would be inaccurate to call him a hero – is a man who writes for a living and plumbs on the side (though it was once the other way around).

Actually, I could do with Bruno’s plumbing skills right now, because the Balkan bloke who came to fit up the new bathroom was something of a let-down. I suppose if he wrote good poetry or something, that would make up for his professional deficiencies. But it would have to be very, very good.

Do you need More Space?

Since I started casually Tweeting on the progress of my very far from extraordinary loft conversion, I've been surprised at the volume of inquiries and interest from loft-focused strangers. This is not a property blog. It's supposed to be about books and writing: but the mention of having builders in the house seems to tap into a vein of angst that runs deep through the (mostly London) population. Perhaps the costs involved in moving house are now so high that almost everyone who owns one is wondering how to make the best of their property footprint, rather than forking over loads of money in stamp duty and assorted fees.

Anyway, what people seem to want to know is this: which outfit have I used for my conversion, and are they any good? Do they deliver what they promise? Have I felt myself to be in good hands? Or has the whole process been bewildering, stressful and disappointing? There is certainly a legion of eager providers/contractors, armed with glossy brochures; the difficulty is knowing which ones to trust.

I've pretty much dodged these polite inquiries so far, on the grounds that my job is not finished (actually it's quite long way from being finished, although the work on site has pretty much dwindled to one bloke and a box of nails); but I promise I will report soon.The company I've used advertises a lot in the London area. If you live in SW anything, you've probably seen their goldfish-sporting Fiats darting from job to job. They're called MoreSpace (or occasionally I Need More Space; or, confusingly, Loft Rooms). I've kept a detailed record of the whole encounter, which I can say right now, on working day 47 of the build, has been an education.

None of this is quite the stuff of novels. But that's not to say there haven't been moments of drama. Whether that drama is closest to comedy, tragedy or the courtroom variety will soon be made plain.