Wednesday December 8, 2004
I wandered into the living room, in pursuit of a decent photograph of the work in progress. There was Graham, singing along happily to a CD I didn’t recognise, cutting up pieces of wallpaper to go under the main window.
“How’s it looking?” he asked.
“It looks jolly good to me.”
“You really think so?”
“Yes, of course. Except for one small thing.”
“Oh. What’s that, then?”
“No, I’m sure it doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, spit it out why don’t you.”
“Well. There’s bound to be a reason for it,” I said, pointing to the middle of the wall he’d just papered. “But is that piece supposed to be a different way up to all the others?”
The expression on his face as he looked at me in horror, then to the strip I was pointing at, was a picture to be treasured.
Then, puzzled, he looked back, to see me grinning, mischievously.
I was surprised to find I can still run that fast.
Work in progress