ripped apart

The sound of smashing: they've started upstairs. This morning, there were six men in my house - Kevin and Ed, Jean-Marc explaining exactly what has to be smashed where, the roofer Robin to do a quick repair on three dormer windows that are rotting but I can't bear to replace right now, the air conditioning expert to give us a quote on new AC for the top floor, which becomes an oven in summer, and Bill to help carry out rubble. The doorbell rang - it was a new neighbour with a guy from Roger's, trying to get the internet set up in his house, could they access the cable box in the backyard? The phone rang; it was my new neighbour Pierre to give me his solution to termites.

I thought the top of my head would come off.

Luckily, the Queen is not coming in the near future to tea, because my house is nearly uninhabitable. In fact, JM wants me to move out. Instead, I have set up a bedroom for myself in the basement.

It's a bit chilly down there, but it's home.

Here's the spare bedroom, once Sam's room, yesterday, and today:

And my room - doors and baseboards off,  and soon the west wall smashed. Woo hoo!

It's surreal, I who love order am now living in utter chaos. But what the hell - I have running water in the kitchen now, and soon the bugs eating my walls will be vanquished, I am sure of it. (Though JM thinks we may have to rip more stuff apart to be sure they're gone.)

Now off to lunch with my good friend Rosemary, if I can find some respectable clothes, if I can find my shoes, if I can wash the dust off my hands. Ah, the simple life.