What would be ideal, seven weeks before Miniatura, would be nights full of restful sleep, good health and a nice space in the home or workshop to work hard from morning to night.
Lovely.
Have I got that?
No. Have a look at this:
if it had three paratroopers crouching in the corner with their fingers in their ears, it would resemble some of the choicer bits of war-torn anywhere on the news, you name it. Where do you think it is? Here’s another view:
I’d like to draw your attention to the far corner:
please note the attractive way the pipe coming down from what’s left of the ceiling is dribbling into the strategically placed bucket, to the right (referring you back to the previous picture) of the random electrical cable.
So where do you think this is then? An unreconstructed bit of Bosnia? An interesting area of war-torn Afghanistan? The back lot of Stargate SG1?
No, it’s my kitchen.
Currently it neatly matches the rest of the house, which I would show you except the electricians have turned all the lighting circuits off while they do the rewiring. They’re managing quite well. considering they are having to step round all the groceries and kitchen contents in dozens of supermarket banana boxes, salvaged from the wet supermarket yard so the whole house smelled of wet bananas until someone found the mouse droppings this morning. We would go and sit in the web manager’s bedroom but it’s full literally to the ceiling with ten year’s worth of the residue of living in flats.
The dining table, where I should be working, is currently the kitchen. Conditions have actually improved. Yesterday, I took advice from the doctor on dealing with the problems caused by the car crash, on a borrowed mobile that cut out three times because of the thunderstorm. To one side, hard-of-hearing husband listening to the telly at full blast, though not watching much because of the drops they’d put in his eyes for his diabetic retinopathy. At the other side of me the workman’s radio and people banging nails into plasterboard. At my feet the storm-soaked clothes off the washing line. The doctor may have advised me to slit my wrists before retiring for the night, it was certainly what I felt like doing, or he may have suggested running away to sea on a tramp steamer, that would have been a nice change too; as I couldn’t hear, I shall never know. Later, as I walked around next door shouting ‘yoo hoo’ to the possible burglars that may have caused the open side door, I reflected, in between jumping into rooms going ‘ha!’ that when the neighbours come back from their holiday and reclaim their budgie that has yelled to every bird it can see, every two minutes in my bird infested garden, as opposed to its own, which has children, that things will be a bit quieter then and I won’t feel quite so suicidal. Also, I may start sleeping again, any night now and I won’t always have to get up at crack of dawn to let the electricians in to turn off the power.
The car, by the way, has been written off and therefore the courtesy car has been reclaimed, so if there’s anything you want me to fetch for you, it would have to be on foot.
And it’s raining again. Would you like me to show you the slugs on my lawn or the caterpillars all over the cauliflowers? Nah, let’s not, I’ll save that for another day. You don’t want all the treats at once, do you? Incidentally if you want any jars opening, I could probably do it with the teeth I’ve ground down to razors, quite easily.
I am hoping that when it all comes down again, it will land sunny side up. But then, I’m an optimist, still. Or, stupid, as it’s sometimes pronounced.
You’ll have to excuse me, the phone has been ringing pointlessly every three minutes for the last half hour. I just need to go and dunk it in a bucket of plaster.
JaneLaverick.com – plumber ho.!