Dust

Working from home is not as easy as one might think. I talked about this in ‘Managing the Café Domestica’. At the moment, it is not only the tyranny of the washing machine and the telephone, but the effect of stereo angle grinders and synchronised masonry drilling. This last couple of weeks has been one of pneumatic drills, excavation, water leaks and clouds of dust that have made the front of the house seem like it has relocated to the desert.  The inside of the house is upside-down.  The lounge windows are boarded up; my furniture lives under dust sheets.  Leaving the house requires a negotiation of a terrain resembling a builder’s yard and a squeeze between a convoy of wide vans on the drive and some rather aggressive juniper.

I grit my teeth. This is grist to the mill and grit to the teeth – literally.  Today the boards will be removed. The lounge will have a new bay window on the other side. Alien light will show up the pre-existing cobwebs and I shall have to think about decorating.

It reminds me of my short story ‘Mortar’, which is posted under that name, inspired by my memories of my father knocking down a dividing wall when I was a little girl. I shall have to write a modern one – perhaps the title should be ‘Dust’.

 

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