You would think that a flat (or apartment to any American readers) would have no stairs at all, but often in the UK flats are made from subdivided houses, and sometimes you get a staircase from your front door to the flat proper.
My flat is not like that. It is a new build with a door onto a communal corridor. It should by rights have absolutely zero stairs. This was certainly the case when I bought it, although I must admit it wasn't on my list of things to check. I've been living there for more than a decade now, so I expect some things to need repair. A heat alarm has recently packed in, which is to be expected given its age. The kitchen tap has become quite stiff and will need a plumber's attention soon. All fairly normal for a flat built to a cheap spec.
What I was not expecting to happen was that one day I would discover my bathroom was now upstairs. It first happened in the dead of night. To be fair I'd had a long evening in the pub and so it took a few crawled steps upwards to fully wake up to the situation.
You may think the this would be an even bigger problem for my upstairs neighbour, who is presumably missing a bathroom-sized chunk of her flat. I couldn't formulate a way of enquiring without sounding like a lunatic, so instead I waited for her to complain. She did not.
In time I got used to having an upstairs bathroom. I relished the extra shelf space the staircase offered, although I hated that I now had to hoover stairs even though I live in a flat.
I did start to worry about where the bathroom actually was. It's not like there's an abundance of space between the floors in my building. If sci-fi had taught me anything, it's that it's probably in another dimension. Hopefully one beyond Hackney council's tax banding assessors. I've watched a fair bit of horror too, and became concerned that my bathroom was now in an evil dimension. So far there hadn't been any possessions, so I'm probably overthinking it. The shower is never quite as hot as I'd like it, but that's more likely due to limescale in the thermal regulator than demonic plumbing.
What would happen if I drilled a hole in the bathroom wall? What would I be able to see into? I put off this invasive exploration for as long as I could. It also applied to the stairs. They passed though where my bathroom used to be, even though they take up less space.
Curiosity got the better of me so I opened the hallway cupboard to find my electric drill. However to my shock the cupboard was empty. My first thought was that I'd been burgled, but then I saw that in place of the shelves and the washer dryer was another staircase. These led down, into darkness. Using my phone's torch, I descended gingerly. At the bottom I found a small room. There was a light switch at the bottom of the stairs. I clicked it on and saw the contents of the cupboard installed along one wall. The washer dryer was even plumbed in. Plumbed into what, I couldn't say. Would I receive an extra dimensional water bill?
This time I didn't worry about my downstairs neighbour. Presumably this didn't affect them in the same way as the bathroom hadn't affected the woman upstairs. The bathroom had been an eccentricity. The cupboard becoming a whole room was a definite improvement.
I remembered the drill, and found it in its expected place amongst the shelves. It was time for some investigation. Walking up a ridiculous two flights of stairs to the bathroom, I selected an unobtrusive patch of wall and drilled through it. When I felt it clear the second sheet of plasterboard, I lowered the drill and peered through the hole. I could see my kitchen. I was certain it was my kitchen because I could see all the fridge magnets on my fridge door.
In some respects this was to be expected. As built, the bathroom does share a wall with the kitchen. The cupboard however had expanded into a room. What would happen if I drilled into the walls there? I decided that was enough interdimensional tunnelling for one day.
I woke up that night gripped by the realisation that the hole between the kitchen and bathroom could be turned into a perpetual motion machine. If I fed a hosepipe through it, then down the stairs and back into the kitchen I could join it in a loop where water would constantly flow downhill. Were my practical skills up to the task of turning this into a generator and cutting my electricity bill? Something told me that breaking the laws of physics would have more severe consequences than fiddling my electricity meter. I put the idea on the back burner. I would probably manage to electrocute myself anyway.
In the morning I discovered that my idea was moot. The kitchen, which is usually a nook at the back of the living room, was now also upstairs. Like the cupboard, it was also now significantly bigger and included an island. I had never imagined I'd be posh enough to have a kitchen island, yet there it was. The fridge, which has once loomed, now looked rather small. I wondered how I would explain the mysterious floorplan of my flat when the fridge inevitably breaks and needs replacing. Maybe this sort of thing happens all the time and everyone's afraid to mention it. Perhaps there's a corner of the internet where people swap stories. If there are, hook me up. I'm enjoying the extra space but worry where it will end. Also, sometimes when I'm in my expanded cupboard room, I am anxious that it might suddenly revert to its specified dimensions, which would almost certainly crush me to death. I read once about a hoarder who had been crushed in a tunnel collapse in her house. The tunnel had been through her room-bursting collection of tat. But what if her house had also spawned extra staircases to bigger rooms? What if she actually had the space for all that crap until suddenly and tragically, she didn't?
I know what you're thinking, but no, this isn't an elaborate allegory. It isn't a tortured warning of staircasing shared ownership flats, although I do sometimes think it's a psychological manifestation of owning one. They are not without their problems, but they are all well documented in new articles featuring photos of glum couples sitting on their sofa, their latest crippling service charge bill laid bare on their IKEA Lack coffee table. I really do have three staircases in my flat, which is definitely three too many and there is not a whisper of such phenomena in the pages of the Guardian. Maybe I should give them a ring. I could explain how it has made me learn to do my own plumbing, which is no mean feat when you don't know what unearthly realm your pipes pass through to get to the bathroom. I have had to learn this because as hard as it is, it's easier than explaining the situation to a qualified plumber.
There is some good news however. The flat seems to have settled at three staircases. I might not be able to entertain any guests without them being a whole thing, but I have grown used to them. So why am I telling you all this? Well, mostly because as I mentioned earlier, they are an absolute bugger to clean. Can anyone recommend a lightweight vacuum cleaner with a really long lead?
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