a stress zombie

One of those days - a beautiful crisp bright day, too - when I'm screaming with frustration. Haven't felt this knot of tension in my stomach since the renovation last winter, which makes sense because the electricians were back today, shouting at each other in Cantonese as they ripped apart my office to fix what should have been a simple wiring issue. Of course it's not. They were here all day, my office is dust and rubble, and they'll be back tomorrow. The old wires in walls and ceiling are dangerous, they say, showing me a blackened wire; all of them need to be replaced.

Oh hooray.

And tomorrow, they also need to explore why a central plug in my kitchen went dead last year, which will mean cutting into my kitchen wall. More hooray.

Plus the plumber who was supposed to come last week to fix a leak has not come, the woman I work with on social media stuff is supposed to be doing something and has vanished, and there's a ton of CNFC work to be done and confusing signals about what and how, leaving us dangling. Plus all kinds of reports in the world papers today on Trudeau's weakness and how this government may only last a short time. And of course, always, the ongoing limbo of the memoir out with publishers who are silent. NO ONE CARES!

Except John. In the middle of the chaos, John appeared. One of my dining room chairs, which along with the table was a lovely gift from Suzette years ago, was broken, the leg splayed at what looked like an unfixable angle. John took it away and brought it back this afternoon, glued to perfection. I couldn't survive here without him.

Many heartfelt thanks to the handymen of this world - and handywomen - who fix things and keep us helpless klutzes going. And, yes, the electricians - because those blackened wires could lead to something we don't even want to think about. So - good news.

It's 5.30. Wine Time. And here's a good laugh - you've probably seen it before, but just in case ...