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freckles_and_doubtThe dread day looms! tomorrow an army of builders descends on my bedroom and reconstructs it from the ground up! In the process they will dig up the floor, damp-course it properly, re-lay it and surface it in wood, sort out the cracks in the walls, damp-proof the walls, raise the roof a foot or so, raise the roof and ceiling of the bathroom a foot or so, deconstruct and reconstruct the shower in order to make it flow uphill into the grey water system, and otherwise make merry in a generally positive builderly1 fashion. This means I've had to move out of my room and bathroom into the guestroom, which has been entertaining as the guest room is a third of the size and already contains its own furniture and the entirety of the Evil Landlord's fantasy collection. Also, I have a fair amount of Stuff, TM, even given the amazingly cathartic throw-out sessions I've been having all week. I love throwing out stuff. It makes me feel lighter.
Being squeezed into a small, cluttered space for the next month is going to give me the pip2, but I console myself with the thought that it'll also give the Evil Landlord the pip, given as how he'll have to endure not only my whinging, but the temporary transformation of his bathroom into a deeply girly space. Callously, I consider that it'll do him good to get in touch with his feminine side. I may go forth and specially acquire some heavily floral bath products.
I know only too well that the latest incarnation of the Army of Reconstruction, even if utterly dissimilar to the last lot in all other ways, will follow their brethren in their absolute disregard for the green things that grow. Consequently, herewith some pics of my courtyard, just for posterity, before it's trampled by a herd of plaster-dropping, cement-mixing, brick-fondling reconstructive elephants.
Also your last chance to experience the Horror That Is My Bedroom, current alias the House of Usher (cracks, dank, strange fungi, although mercifully as yet no incestuous corpses).
Being squeezed into a small, cluttered space for the next month is going to give me the pip2, but I console myself with the thought that it'll also give the Evil Landlord the pip, given as how he'll have to endure not only my whinging, but the temporary transformation of his bathroom into a deeply girly space. Callously, I consider that it'll do him good to get in touch with his feminine side. I may go forth and specially acquire some heavily floral bath products.
I know only too well that the latest incarnation of the Army of Reconstruction, even if utterly dissimilar to the last lot in all other ways, will follow their brethren in their absolute disregard for the green things that grow. Consequently, herewith some pics of my courtyard, just for posterity, before it's trampled by a herd of plaster-dropping, cement-mixing, brick-fondling reconstructive elephants.
Also your last chance to experience the Horror That Is My Bedroom, current alias the House of Usher (cracks, dank, strange fungi, although mercifully as yet no incestuous corpses).
1 Almost but not entirely unlike bildungsroman.
2 Good lord! Who knew that "the pip" (colloquially "a fit of disgust, depression or bad temper") is more literally a disease of poultry or hawks, characterised by throat mucus and white scale on the tongue? Eeuw. But linguistically interesting.
