In this column I have frequently written about junk.  The detritus of living.  The stuff we bought with actual money which is now cluttering up the corners of wherever we live, covered with a layer of dust and some cobwebs and decorated with a ticket, a twist tie, a pebble and a little key.  What is the key for?  When did we ever have a door that feeble or a suitcase that tiny?

The builders announced, a mere year after being asked, that they would commence building the extra rooms on top of the garage, to accommodate the grandchildren who now live in another country altogether but may visit if there is somewhere to put them.

The builders, however, following the plan drawn by the architect, who appears to have vanished prior to the visit of the building inspector who has that many questions for him, cannot begin.  They are unable by virtue of the boiler for the hot water and central heating, an outside tap and a sink which are all connected to a wall which will be demolished.

So first the plumbers.

All week I have had plumbers.  Their two day visit, already three, will recommence after the bank holiday.  On Thursday I was quite keen to make use of the facilities in the smallest room, two of which I possess.  One had no water and the other had no floor.  I went next door in the end.

The bank holiday.  A hot bank holiday.  What am I doing?  Clearing out the garage which next week will have no walls or roof and in which live two kilns, umpteen moulds, all my masters, gallons and gallons of slip and everything else one collects in the course of thirty years of making dolls in the garage.

The OH has been rubbish.  He has stayed out of the way.  He has rested his eyeballs in front of the TV.  He is currently out practising his darts. I am just slogging on.  I am filthy, sweaty, tired and disenchanted with tidying up thirty years of junk.  (Though I did find some cracking plant labels, unopened packet, result.)

None of which matters in the slightest because I am a person with a publishing contract.

Oh yes I am and they want the pictures.

You may sing.

I have, all week.


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