Today the Clearing Out The Garage Project took a huge leap forward. And, I hate to admit it, but it's all because Mr B has suddenly, and somewhat belatedly, decided to Take An Interest.
Regular readers will recall that, back in the days we called "Summer", I spent any number of highly productive afternoons in the garage, each of which was followed by a Trip To The Tip (otherwise known as the Waste Amenity
Site.) We must have made at least eight trips to the tip with our car laden with rubbish from the garage. If not ten.
But once I'd moved everything, well, moveable - I was left with The
Big Stuff. An old dining room table. A rusty fridge freezer. A king-sized headboard. A warped snooker table. A set of ladders which nobody in their right mind would climb up. It was at this point that I rather lost heart. For a time, indeed, it seemed
as if the Clearing Out The Garage Project was doomed to failure.
To the rescue, just in time, comes Mr B. He organises everything in double quick time and today round comes Mr T (yes, indeed,
I know a whole alphabet of men) to empty the rest of the garage and start work on turning it into a place with a practical purpose. We will have racking! We will have shelves! We will have strip lights! We will have a place for everything and
everything in its place. It is little short of a miracle.
Of course, while all this work is going on, we have had to find a place indoors for the spare dining room chairs which we are keeping for those
times when we need to feed an army. And for the parasol and the multitude of cushions which adorn the garden furniture. Plus the high-chair and stair gate I borrowed from a friend for when the littlest ones come to stay and an assortment of
casserole dishes, beer glasses and the like for which there is no room in our kitchen cupboards. Then there's Mr B's now-redundant golf clubs and the set of pottery dishes for the making of Crema Catalana which we bought on holiday in Spain
and have never used. Even once.
You are probably getting the idea. Our house is full of Stuff. It will go back in the garage when the transformation is complete but for the moment it
is making the house look oh-so-untidy. I'd be seriously depressed but for the fact that I very sensibly turned my back on the chaos and 'phoned my grandson, six year old Sam.
Twenty minutes of story-telling
over the telephone. A boat called The Jolly Boy, a house with three doors (labelled Snap, Crackle and Pop after its owners whom we'd cut out of a cereal packet on my last visit) plus a flying house (with propellers, apparently - wings are just so yesterday...)
for when Snap, Crackle and Pop need to set off on adventures...
And, no, you're quite wrong, it wasn't me telling this tall tale. It was Sam the Storyteller.
Sometimes a Nanna's job is just to listen...