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‘Add some harsh weather…’

So I did.

mess

From the book Mess: The Manual of Accidents and Mistakes by Keri Smith

Steptoe’s Yard

It seems to be the rule in this house that if there is work going on in one room, there will be uncontrollable overspill into the others.

The dynamic duo of plumbers are back this morning; look what they left overnight and they weren’t even working in this room.

On another Groundhog Day note I just popped into the garage to buy a sack of coffee beans and some petrol.

“All together?” was the opening gambit. I was on my own and yes, shockingly, I did want to combine the two items on the same receipt.

They don’t let you away so easily in that gaff: “Do you want a hot drink with that this morning?”

*screams silently*

How Life Is

Messy – check
Dusty – check
Rubbly – check

I will be busy bonding with Henry, my mop and bucket, and some industrial wipes for the next month.

Anyone who has ever seen me hang out washing will know that Henry and the mop/bucket combo are going to be sorely tried. Domestic Diva I am not. That’s what makes all the above so much worse.

You had to feel sorry for the plastering lad as he left. My face was one of utter misery. I smiled and said thank you, but then I said I was lying. How I am not also lying face down on the bed mainlining opiates I don’t know. See things are so acute, I’ve employed a double negative. Work on the house is bad for my nerves, my respiratory system, my housewife’s elbow and my grammar.

Oh, and I don’t want to talk about it.

That smile won't last long

For once, words fail me

So here is a photo diary of yesterday in chronological order. Put in your own commentary if it amuses you. If not, don’t worry.
Perhaps my own verbiage will return in due course.



Wronging a Right

There was a scurrilous rumour flying about the blogosphere last week – namely that I am not a slattern or a makemea of any description: that I am actually a Marie Antoinette type who lies about in asses’ milk, whilst scoffing petit fours and scheming to keep the masses of the North West from taking up residence in my palatial bathroom.

This could not be further from the seedy truth I’m afraid. The bathroom may be an attempt to recreate the glory of art deco (mainly because I can’t afford a room at Burgh Island Hotel), but the kitchen, I can assure you, is pure hippie 70s complete with the remnants of top-of-the-range Schreiber units.

Plus mess. A lot of it and a lot of it mine. Believe me, in the wider scheme of things, the bathroom is just an aberration.

This is the kitchen.

*Hangs head in shame*

On the bright side we are going to rehome another old kitchen that is currently waiting to be ripped out in Devon. It’s wood, I haven’t measured up but nothing can be worse than the present incumbent. Can it?

To be continued…