I’d have renovated my house if I’d known coronavirus was coming. Who knows when I’ll get my dream home studio now?

If only I’d had the foresight all those years ago to have wrestled the pencil from the architect’s hand and told him that while a wet room is a good idea, keeping oneself employed is even better, writes Jenny Eclair

Stocking up: room for a chest freezer? (Getty/iStockphoto)

Fifteen years ago we built our own house. When I say “we”, I mean my designer partner, who worked with a brilliant architect and a team of equally brilliant builders.

I did precisely nothing; at the time I was writing a novel and stayed holed up in our old Georgian terrace. I wasn’t even sure whether we’d move into the new house when it was completed, I thought we might just stay put and sell the project that remained hidden for months on end behind huge wooden hoardings.

For starters, it seemed to have happened by accident. My partner had been made redundant, got some money and had seen a little two-up two-down, with a garage for sale. The next thing I knew, he’d bought it, obtained planning permission and knocked the thing down.

The terrifying thing about building your own house in my experience, is that there is a moment when all you have is a really expensive hole in the ground, a big empty crater that cost hundreds of thousands of pounds.

Because I’m neither a designer nor an architect, I didn’t involve myself in any of the plans. I was shown them, huge rolls of intricate architectural drawings that I couldn’t envisage as a three-dimensional reality. As I said, I wasn’t even sure whether we’d ever live in it, all I knew was that it would be very modern and, unlike our old house, would have neither basement or attic spaces.

Rather than lots of dark nooks and crannies, it would be very light and open plan and the kitchen would be small but the living area large. It would also have a family bathroom and a wet room, plus the requisite number of bedrooms and a small study each, (should we ever decide to move in). As the work started, I buried my head deeper into the book that I was writing and barely noticed that the seasons were changing. Eventually, as a second spring rolled into another summer “Stealth House”, as it had been nicknamed, was finished.

I looked at my partner’s face when he showed me around and I realised there would be no way he could build his own house and not live in it. By October 2005, we had moved in.

There is nothing I regret about this, I am an extremely lucky woman to have lived in two lovely houses and for more than a decade, I’ve been utterly content in the modern house – until now.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still very happy with the actual house itself, it’s just that had I known back in 2005 there was going to be a global pandemic sometime down the line, there are a couple of design tweaks I’d have insisted upon.

First and foremost, I’d have demanded space for a chest freezer. “Oh I know, it’s all very well building a house that sits within five hundred yards of a big supermarket”, I would have argued. “But you never know, one day we might find ourselves in a global lockdown and casually strolling down to the shop will be a thing of the past. I will accept a galley kitchen darling, but we need space for a chest freezer, mark my words.”

There is only one other thing I’d have insisted on – and no, it certainly wouldn’t have been a walk-in shoe closet, or a self-tanning booth. Forget your saunas and solariums people, I’ve realised that what every girl really needs while a worldwide emergency rages outside the front door, is a home recording studio.

If only I’d had the foresight all those years ago to have wrestled the pencil from the architect’s hand and told him that one bathroom is sufficient and while a wet room is a good idea, keeping oneself employed is even better.

Because since we all came indoors, however many weeks ago, I cannot tell you how handy a home recording studio would have been.

By home recording studio, I mean a small room with a door you can close against the loudest siren and an idiot-proof selection of audio visual equipment that even the most stupid 60-year-old woman can use. Imagine if you will, a mini TV and radio recording studio designed by Fisher-Price, because that’s what’s missing from my life right now.

Without my studio, like everyone else, I am attempting podcasts from under the duvet in an effort to somehow control the quality of sound and flinching from the sight of my face during any zoom interaction. I’m being talked through various methods of recording my voice by experts who promise it will “work this time” only to end up sounding like I’m at the bottom of the sea in a metal box again.

So when this is all over, forget a new car or a holiday, if there is anything left in the bank, the first thing I’m going to do is convert the wet room into a home recording studio. I’m not facing another pandemic without one. Anyway, I’ve already measured it up and guess what? There’s enough room for a chest freezer too.