5.2.2012 Dead Pigeons as loft insulation (Millport, Isle of Cumbrae, Scotland)

Dead Pigeons as loft insulation

On TV they make it look so easy – fun even.  Teams of dungaree-clad, muscle rippling tradesmen stride up the path and in half an hour (including advertising breaks) the house is transformed from a rot infested, dank, old fashioned three bed semi into a sleek minimalist pad with double height ceilings, walls of glass, glittering recessed lighting, pristine white ceilings and calm, suave owners.    The before and after shots look as if someone has just pressed a button and hey presto, transformation.

So why is it that our attempt to refurbish our pretty Victorian cottage has already taken us a month and so far we appear only to have succeeded in creating dusty chaos throughout.  We started by inviting our local timber specialist, Angus, to squirm down a minute hatch under the floor, where he found no rot but offcuts of timber that the original builders left lying about in 1897.  No point submitting a complaint however.  As we say here, ‘The man who did that has’nae got a headache noo’.    

Angus then wriggled himself up the tiny aperture into our tiny loft.  There he encountered the comfortable abode of numerous generations of pigeons, whose nests, feathers, unhatched eggs and even three and a half desiccated corpses were providing a somewhat unwholesome layer of insulation above the bedrooms.  A whole new meaning to the phrase 'pigeon loft'.  So Bill, masked like Darth Vader, ascended the ladder, and, not being as slim as Angus, coaxed his ample form through the limited space, clutching a bucket and rubber gloves, and anticipating that he would be up there till he lost enough weight to get back down again.  Several hours and eight bulging black sacks later, the loft was clean.  So now we are insulating it with massive thick brown cushions of fibre glass.  These were purchased at an unbelievably low price owing to the generosity of the government, which is anxious to save money by reducing the number of elderly couples that need to be thawed out courtesy of the National Health Service.

So now half the loft is insulated, and I am getting used to the ladder in the bathroom, the black polythene which is carpeting the kids’ bedroom, the mattress propped against my wardrobe such that I have to grope for my clothes and be prepared to wear whatever I pull out, sight unseen.  Then there’s the cupboard in the hall where the chair should be, and that same chair temporarily re-homed in front of the TV making viewing just a little tricky.  And the spare bed, empty of bedding and upended precariously.  And of course the dust, fine and clinging, covering everything with a light, greyish powder.   

And the fact that you can’t find anything.   The stapler is as likely to be in the vegetable rack as on the desk; that red screwdriver that was definitely on the bookcase in the hall yesterday is in fact in the sock drawer, and what on earth is that scarf doing in the coal bucket??

And this is only month one – insulation.  We still have to put up the special wallpaper, do the plaster repairs, the painting, re-carpeting, re-curtaining, installation of central heating, total repaint of the outside, digging out the garden, repairing the woodwork on the dormer.  That’s assuming I haven’t forgotten anything.  Makes me exhausted just to think of it.   Why can’t that team of dungaree-clad, muscle rippling tradesmen stride up my path I’d like to know.  But I have just noticed that my own personal dungaree-clad muscle rippling man is no longer snoozing peacefully by the fire.  A distant rumbling and bumping indicates that he is roosting in the loft again.  Maybe pigeon comforts have something to commend them after all.