The smell hit me first when I walked into our flat’s bathroom properly for the first time – not the quick glance during the viewing where you’re trying to be polite, but the real assessment once we’d got the keys. That musty, slightly off smell that clings to bathrooms that haven’t been touched since about 1987. The avocado suite was bad enough, but the grout had gone this horrible brown-grey colour and there was wallpaper with little ducks wearing sailor hats. I mean, what were people thinking back then?
My first instinct was typical me – rip everything out and start again. Probably would’ve done it too if my girlfriend hadn’t stepped in with some actual sense. “Marcus,” she said, giving me that look, “what’s your real budget here? Not the optimistic teacher-on-summer-holidays budget, the actual money you’ve got.” Fair point. Teaching doesn’t exactly leave you rolling in cash for major renovations.
So I did what I probably should’ve done first – sat down with a proper plan. Not just scrolling through Instagram getting ideas (though I’d done plenty of that), but actually working out what we could afford and when. Got out a notebook – proper paper one, not just my phone – and started what became my bathroom renovation survival guide.
The first thing I learned is you’ve got to separate what you want from what you actually need. Trust me, this is harder than it sounds when you’ve been using a bathroom that looks like a time capsule from the Major years. The shower was leaking behind the tiles – discovered this when water started coming through the kitchen ceiling below, which was brilliant. The toilet wobbled every time you sat down, which doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. The medicine cabinet had basically given up on life entirely, door hanging off at this tragic angle.
Those became Priority One – the stuff that was either broken or potentially damaging the flat. Everything else, all my dreams of rainfall showers and heated towel rails and those gorgeous metro tiles I’d bookmarked about fifty times, got bumped down the list. Painful but necessary.
When I actually worked out the numbers, I nearly choked on my tea. Plumbing repairs were looking at £800 minimum, potentially more if they found other issues once they started poking around. New bathroom suite anywhere from £600 to £1500 depending on how fancy we went. Tiling and labour another £1200 at least. Paint, new fixtures, all the bits and pieces, probably £400. Total damage somewhere between £3000 and £4000, and I’d optimistically budgeted £2500. Maths was never my strongest subject but even I could see this wasn’t going to work.
That’s when I discovered phased renovation – basically accepting that you don’t have to do everything at once. Revolutionary concept, I know. Instead of trying to transform the whole bathroom in one go and probably going into debt, we’d do it in stages over about six months. Phase One would be fixing the actual problems – leaks, wobbly toilet, basic functionality. Phase Two would be making it look decent – tiles, paint, new fixtures. Phase Three would be the nice-to-haves once we’d recovered financially and emotionally from the first two phases.
I made a timeline and stuck it on the fridge like some kind of renovation advent calendar. January for getting quotes and finalising exactly what we were doing – learned from our bedroom project that “we’ll figure it out as we go” is expensive. February for ordering stuff with long delivery times, because apparently everyone else also wants to renovate their bathrooms. March for starting the actual work. Built in recovery time between phases too, because living through renovation while trying to teach Year 9 about glacial formation is genuinely exhausting.
The reality check spreadsheet became my new best friend. Every single thing got three prices – budget option, sensible middle choice, and dream version that would probably bankrupt us. Vanity unit? £150 for basic IKEA that I could hack myself, £400 for something decent from B&Q, or £800 for the solid wood one that made me slightly emotional just looking at it. Most stuff ended up in the middle category with a few budget compromises and one or two splurges where it really mattered.
Started thinking about what would actually make a difference versus what just looked good in photos. That underfloor heating I was obsessing over? Lovely idea, but the basic bathroom needed to actually function first. The heated towel rail though, that made it through to Phase Two because October mornings in a damp bathroom are genuinely miserable, and it’s not just luxury when you’re trying to get ready for work and everything feels cold and horrible.
Built in buffer time and buffer money too – 10% extra on budget, couple of weeks extra on timeline. Felt painful at the time but saved my sanity when the tiles arrived in the wrong colour and had to be sent back. Also when we discovered the floor needed more work than expected, which obviously it did because nothing’s ever straightforward with Victorian conversions.
The plan changed as we went along, obviously. That geometric floor tile I’d fallen in love with online? Way too busy for our tiny space once I saw it properly. The rainfall shower head looked amazing but our water pressure is rubbish so it would’ve been pointless. The floating vanity was gorgeous but completely impractical given where the pipes were.
But having the original plan meant these felt like proper decisions rather than panic choices. Could adapt without losing sight of what we were trying to achieve or how much we could spend, because everything was written down and costed out. Made the whole thing feel manageable instead of this overwhelming disaster that was eating our savings.
Looking at it now, about eight months later, I’m pretty proud of how we managed it. Not just the end result – though the bathroom actually looks like somewhere you’d want to spend time rather than just somewhere you have to go – but the whole process. Morning routine feels completely different now. Better. The space works with how we actually live instead of against us.
Best bit? We actually came in under budget on Phase Two. Turns out planning really does work, even for someone whose main experience of project management comes from trying to get thirty teenagers to complete coursework on time. The buffer money we didn’t need went towards some proper towels and a plant that’s somehow still alive despite my track record with keeping things alive.
Still saving up for Phase Three – those brass taps aren’t going to buy themselves on a teacher’s salary – but that’s fine. Having a plan means I know exactly what I’m saving for and why, rather than just vaguely hoping things will work themselves out. Which, let’s be honest, they never do.
