Son of the Bride of the Return of the Army of Reconstruction

'Tis a momentous day, oh yes. Today is the day that the Army of Reconstruction, or rather the Son of the Bride of the Return of the Army of Reconstruction, rolls in with its panzer division and proceeds to lay waste to all before it. I came home to a house infested with a choking pall of dust, through which the kitties peered all wide-eyed and jumpy. Oh, and the builders have done the usual, which is to put the pile of bricks flat down onto a reasonably flourishing piece of lawn. I am not destined to grow lawn. Between the plane tree, which is ridiculously shady, the fact that I park my car on the poor struggling grass, and my Erratic Hosepipe of Ineffectual Druiding -2, it's pretty much doomed even before the builders implement their scorched earth policy.

I have to report, they're clearly not amateurs in the Destroying Things category. This was the courtyard yesterday afternoon:



This was the courtyard when I got home this evening after a jolly orientation-preparatory 11-hour day:



(I think Hobbit thinks this is a new, giant litterbox especially for him).

I'm beginning to think my fondness for disaster movies is actually a deep-seated psychological response to renovations, the latest round of which is extra-traumatic because it's entailed my book collection being reduced to forty-two boxes, all carefully packed, with the contents printed clearly on each, and I get downright twitchy when I suddenly can't access my Bujold collection at 2am on an insomniac whim.

Golux is also a bit traumatised, one of the minor unnecessary walls which bought it today was the randomly curvy one on which she was wont to imitate the action of the gargoyle, all medieval-like:



I'm going to book club now, where I shall proceed to get drunk, on the excellent grounds that work is horrible, and there's grit in my teeth.