In my place

Wednesday August 16, 2006

“Do you want to keep this paintbrush?” I asked, holding up the heavily worn item with which I’d just applied the last dab of paint to the very last wall needing to be painted in the house.

“Nope. It’s too small for emulsion, and will never work with gloss. Chuck it out.”

So I wrapped it up, unwashed and with the last of the paint still in the bristles and consigned it to the trash. With great relief. I’d have done a little dance of glee if I’d not felt so terribly weary.

The painting job is finished, completely and finally, and the house is now ready to receive our furniture and boxes and to be brought as rapidly as possible to a state where Dolly and I can move in and start living once more. It’s unlikely that Graham will be able to take up full-time residence before the end of September or the middle of October but he’ll be spending as much time as possible with us, accelerating the process of turning the house into a home. I’m hoping that we’ll be in full residence before Graham’s birthday on December the fourth.

Tomorrow I shall phone the removal company to fix the date on which our stuff will be moved from storage into the house. This coming weekend we’ll sit down and work out a timetable for the rest of the process.

Graham whistled through his task for the day—finishing the painting of the living room—and then settled to the task of fixing the broadband connection. Within minutes he’d established an Ethernet connection between the laptop and the hub, and a wireless connection for his Hewlett Packard handheld computer. Try as he may he couldn’t get the laptop to go wireless. My feeling is that there are so many layers of Internet software left around on the system that internal conflicts are preventing the establishment of a wireless connection. We’ll get there but meantime I have a working broadband service, running at a little over 8mbps. This is eight times faster than the service we had in Lincolnshire.

I was too tired and weary to appreciate it, though, and wanted to head back to the caravan, so I did a quick tidy round while Graham vacuumed the carpets, and we hit the road, arriving shortly after seven o’clock. This was rather later than we’ve been before, and Dolly was sitting at the door waiting for us. She was not pleased. I suspect a good part of the reason for her displeasure had a lot to do with the radio we leave on to keep her company when we she’s on her own. It was playing The Archer’s—a long-running radio soap. Dolly doesn’t like The Archer’s. I can’t blame her. I don’t like The Archer’s, either.

We settled in for a quiet, restful evening, with a dinner of quiche and salad, and a bottle of cheap plonk. The latter was a mistake and I can feel my system complaining once more. May be that I’m entering into another of those periods when I can’t drink wine, or anything alcoholic. Or it may be that my meanness made me choose the wrong plonk, working on price rather than quality. I’ll try something a little more upmarket next time and, until then, stick to the Theakston’s beer that seems to suit me so well.

A funny old day, then, and monstrously tiring. But, at last, the painting is finished. It’ll be good to have time and energy to turn to other things. I’m fancying a walk on the beach just as soon as I’m sure that the end of this busy period isn’t going to turn the arthritis on for a bit, just to put me in my place. Doesn’t do to get too confident with arthritis.

 

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