This morning, eviction notice served, C moved out.
Well…not entirely, thank goodness. Just to the snug, kettle and all.
This wasn’t a telepathic situation. The tidy up and relocation, completed by 11am, was prompted by a series of somewhat desperate texts sent this morning.
The first, sent at 8.25am requested that he divert from his to-do list to have a go at the problematic bit of ceiling, geometrically segregated from the rest by beams. This particular section receives the most light from the windows showing the patchiness up in all its glory….and glorious was not how I felt this morning when I tiptoed downstairs, O still slumbering, to have a look at last nights handiwork. Yesterday’s patches were gone to be replaced by todays….and I could have cried.
Last night had felt like the ceilings last chance. It’s not a job we want to do once officially in residence, its not a job I could feasibly tackle today as I had lovely things planned for O and I, nor tonight as clearly working in artificial light had hindered, not helped, the situation. The weekend would offer either S or I – whichever was on ‘house’ duty – a mammoth list which I knew fairly well, particularly if S was assigned to it, would not include repainting the ceiling.
“We’ll just have to live with it. No one will notice but us” was his response to the dilemma to which I have two retaliations. The first is ….I’m (foolishly?) blogging about it so everyone interested in pebbledashed pads will notice it. The second is …those last two people, S and I, are actually the only ones that really matter. If he had said “everyone else will notice it but we won’t” he might have swung me.
As I showered accompanied by a number 2ing O, I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being a bit lazy asking C to do a job I am perfectly able, yet sick and tired, of doing. I texted again apologising for bothering him with it but reminding him diplomatically – if one can be diplomatic at 8.48am by intrusive text – that we were going to move into the extension this weekend so if he had a chance at the end of the day to relocate his tools that would be great.
Text sent, I took a gulp of coffee before launching Jackanory-style into O’s current favourite… ‘Chocolate Mousse for a Greedy Goose.’ Much as I tried, the tale of dinner time with Shetland Pony eating macaroni and Happy Moth eating the cloth couldn’t shift my growing concern about how to complete the painting of the utility cupboards, clean the extension including the dusty fridge (inside and out….), pack up the kitchen upstairs, decide where everything will go downstairs (gotcha….that was OCDly planned ages ago) tackle the drying stripper on the plasterwork and banisters which I haven’t yet had a chance to remove and ….finally….unpack into our new kitchen …..with only one pair of hands on the job. The other would need to continue to read. Chocolate Mousse for a Greedy Goose. Again.
I sent another text. This time to a friend, asking if they could look after O for a few hours tomorrow. The answer was yes. (Thank you SELHM). Gratefully relieved, O and I set about enjoying our lovely day together and all was forgotten as I, entranced, watched my son experience the magic of theatre for the very first time, his excitable bounces and animated clapping indicating his enjoyment as the story of Arthur and his Dream Boat came to life before his eyes. My feeble attempts at the voice of Mother Hen saying “blow on it then” and Angry Rabbit saying “don’t just grab it” will, I fear, now always fall short.