I promised M I would write something, but then I promised myself that I wouldn't write anything gloomy, so after some inevitable delay HERE I AM, ready to blind you with sunny positivity.
The builders have taken over the whole house which now smells of cigarettes and wet dog (they seem to be using plaster made out of mashed up wet dog hair, or indeed mashed up wet dog) so we have retreated to the cowering (this was M's auto-correct for 'co-working' and I have adopted it) space. I have been telling myself for approximately 3 years that I should go to a cowering space regularly, but inertia always gets the better of me. Only now, with 4 chainsmoking, garrulous builders, plastic film over all doorways in manner of a Dexter kill room, no light switches and repeated electricity outages, have I finally forced my sorry arse here and guess what, it is very good indeed.
Pros of the cowering space:
Garden. Also features an aubergine with a face (or penis).
See faces of people I am not related to occasionally. Sometimes even speak to them.
Break from the terrifying screaming old lady in our street.
Vicarious coolness as cowering space full of mismatched vintage furniture and cool start ups.
Free breakfast on Thursday mornings (ie today) with cool start up people and mint tea using mint from beautiful garden.
An ice cream van parks outside in the afternoon.
Absence of distraction.
Cons of cowering space:
Absence of distraction = forced to face own shameful inefficiency.
Tedious luxembourgeois in loafers with no socks in next room SHOUTING.
Silkie cockerel also SHOUTING.
Ambient noise from trains, aeroplanes and enormous lorries as cowering space in light industrial hinterland easily rivals builders sanding walls.
Coolness and youth of fellow cowerers makes me feel like hideous resident crone. Thankfully, I have brought dog along, which gives me bonus eccentricity points.
Dog functionally insane due to Change. Does not deal well with Change. Also, tendency to pee on organic cowering space strawberry plants in full view of other cowerers.
Only lunch choice is the lady in the garage across the road who thinks hard boiled eggs are a crudité.
Plastic table hurts my delicate lady elbows.
Cannot take wig off when it gets unbearably hot (now) and air conditioning costs extra.
Have to drive there, which causes my habitual sweaty panic, even though I can actually now find my way without GPS. The car started beeping at me this morning and I became rigid with terror and had to pull over and call for help, only to realise that the noise was because the dog had set off the seatbelt sensor. I am forty this year.
On balance, I am in favour, if only for the sheen of social integration it brings to my essentially feral hermit's life: I am forced to (i) wear clothes without food on (ii) apply some basic make up (iii) sit at a desk and look like I am working, even if I am not, all of which are undoubtedly good things. Also, a kick-boxing social media type has just given me the details of a good osteopath.
Apart from that, I have little to relate. The sun has come out, the children are at a campsite in Normandy being theoretically supervised by their Sudoko-ing grandparents, and the opportunities for drinking gin on the sofa watching terrible television are numerous, if only I can peel the plastic film off the doorway to get in.
20% toeclaw shame (cannot find nail polish remover, cannot bear closed toe shoes in this heat)
20% Cos sack
20% Pain au chocolat
20% Sun-induced torpor
10% Ongoing horror at finding squashed flying ant in my bra last night
5% Caudalie Eau de Beauté
5% Holy shit my book, it's official.