The whole house is in a mess.
Dave, the Most Relentlessly Cheerful Gasman on the Planet, has taken over the kitchen. There
are dust sheets on the floor, dangerous looking tools on every kitchen surface and bits of (i) the new and (ii) the old boiler here, there and everywhere. If the mess could be confined to the kitchen it might not be so bad but the necessary displacement of
furniture and kitchen apparatus means that both the hallway and the living room are cluttered up. The little loo is relatively clear but it doesn't exactly offer alternative living space.
It is almost impossible to get to the kettle. Dave says this is not a problem for him as he never, ever, indulges in hot drinks. Which is hunky-dory as far as he is concerned but a bit of a problem for those of us who need occasional
recourse to The Bean. Mr B sets up his new coffee machine on the only bit of free worktop in sight so he’s OK too but his coffee fix is far too strong for the likes of me. I set off for my morning meeting in town, comforting myself with the thought
that I will be able to buy a latte in the cafe at St Paul’s Community Centre while the chaos reigns in my kitchen in my absence.
My longed-for latte
arrives with a surprise on top in the shape of a panda swirled into the foam. How do they do that, I marvel? It is so sweet that I can hardly bear to drink it (if you will excuse a quite unforgivable pun.) I decide I will need to savour it as heaven only knows
when I will be able to make myself a cup of coffee at home. I spin the meeting out as long as I can but the time comes to return to my messy house. It doesn’t seem to have miraculously cleared itself up in my absence, I note. Strange, that.
Dave has decided that the pipe work for our new boiler does not need to go up into the front bedroom or the loft after all. This means that all my work clearing out the wardrobe
cupboard (see yesterday’s blog) was unnecessary – as was the even harder work put in by my son in law and his friend clearing a pathway through all our priceless junk stored in the loft. Fortunately the latter only cost us a roast beef dinner
while I could argue that the wardrobe in question needed a good clear-out were it not for the fact that all the contents are now strewn over the guest bed, adding to the general sense of domestic chaos.
Dave apparently grew up on a farm and so has an abiding love of birds and animals. He is just back from his holiday in Northern Cyprus where he and his family stayed in a villa with a pool. If you like, I could give you chapter
and verse of his air travel, coach transfer and edited highlights of his sight-seeing. He certainly has a lot to say. This suits Mr B down to the ground because he also loves to chat. Nobody who does any work in our house or garden gets away without
sharing a cuppa and a conversation with Mr B. It's amazing that anything ever does get done.
I leave the two fellas to it and closet myself in our living room
to try to sort out my email problems. Yes, dear reader, my virtual abode is in as much of a mess as my bricks-and-mortar dwelling place. Where is Young Jack when I need him? Out in Barbados, that’s where. I am quite sure he would be able to sort
me out, no problem.
On the basis that a problem shared is a problem halved here is the issue: while I can receive emails on my laptop, both my mobile devices (my new phone and the Us Pad) tell
me they have connection problems.This only seems to have been an issue since I changed my Yahoo password and I only did this because Yahoo advised me to do so. Mr B says I never do what he advises so why did I choose to obey Yahoo and cause myself so much
aggravation? When did I become so obedient all of a sudden? I tell him that there as to be an easy answer but as yet I cannot find it. Yahoo offers lots of “customer care” but it is all about choosing from a series of options, none of which describe
my quandary. All I need is a real person I can talk to who isn’t Dave the Gasman.
Mr B, ignoring both my plight and the mess surrounding us, comments
that he is pleased with all we have achieved in the last week – repairs to the guttering, to the back door, the fitting of a new boiler. We have done well, he says, complacently. At this point the domestic alarm system starts bleeping incessantly,
throwing Mr B instantly out of complacency and into major Woe Is Me, Why Does Everything Happen To Us, What have We Done to Deserve This? mode. A telephone call later and it’s all sorted but Mr B remains chastened by the experience.
Fortunately Dave the Gasman has left for the day so I can do what I always do when life gets hard; I make us both a cup of coffee.
I can't manage a panda on the top but then what Mr B has never seen, he won’t miss....