Sign Your Name Across My...

House.

Did I get you singing a bit of Terence Trent D'Arby there? I do love a bit of the old TTD'A.

Twenty-one months after buying the house and eight months after moving in, we've quit messing around with the postman, delivery drivers, Interflora (in my dreams) and visitors in general.

On Sunday we finally got round to hanging our new house name sign. Admittedly, I'd only bought it a couple of days before we went on holiday, so it's not like we could have hung it much sooner anyway. It took us a while to come up with a new name to replace the somewhat un-Somersetshire/unpleasant one that we inherited. AREOSA. Yep, that's right. Are-flamin-osa. Dreadful name, as discussed in a previous post.

So, without further ado, here we have the official hanging-the-house-name-sign ceremony in all its glory.

First stand back, admire blank wall and decide where to hang aforementioned sign. We decided the best place was pretty much where the old sign had been, which meant the holes left by that sign (which you can just about make out in this photo as two pale dots in the brick midway between the door handle and upper key hole) would be covered up. 

Next, implore small son to get all of the sharpest, pointiest, most dangerous tools out of the crate and play with them in order to keep him occupied while the adults do the important jobs like prise apart rawl plugs and find the spirit level.

Ignore small child's pleas of 'I help, Daddy?

Give in and allow small child to 'help' while (easily breakable) slate sign dangles precariously from one screw.

Boot child out of way and take charge.

Affix second screw.

Stand back and admire handy work.

Come one, come all, now that you can find us a little more easily.

Sign is straight; photographer isn't.