Heavens Above

Did I mention that a cat died in our roof? Oh. I did. 

Just checking.

After giving up one weekend to dig the carcass and all its squirming friends from our rafters, we* have spent this last one ripping down the whole network of tongue and groove slats that its maggoty backside had nestled on above our heads. Which, as you will appreciate, with a nine month old baby, no money and a total absence of patience or humour, is no delightful undertaking.

While Dave and his Dad worked on putting up all these sheets of plasterboard, I sat on the flat roof and consoled our fascias and soffiting, which had unwittingly harboured the mortal criminal. They're confidence is shot to bits. The guttering was more upbeat, and tried to gee the others up, but they just feel so dirty and stupid and used. I told them not to blame themselves. That it was a million to one chance that something like this could have happened. But they just couldn't think straight. It's all still so raw. The fascias sobbed their little hearts out - and yet again the guttering stepped in to deal with that one. He really is a gem.

With a such a reassuring, supportive network of timbers, brackets and screws around them, and with the exciting addition of some brand new roof felt, hopefully they'll start to come round.

I'll give you a clue.
It was in the left hand corner, above the fridge.
And now you know, you want to set your eyes on fire, don't you?

As I crawled down from the roof, I discovered that all the plasterboard had been secured. So, now we've got to live in that horrible decorating limbo, where you use the general untidiness of there being drills and nails on the worktop as an excuse for chippy teas and never washing up. It's like that unnerving inbetween-ness of waiting for your car to be MOT'd, but it lasts for weeks.

And until we can get a plasterer to come and skim the ceiling, we can't redecorate. And until we win the lottery, we can't get a plasterer to come and skim the ceiling. And since we don't do the lottery, we're offcially in the poo poo. Hopefully, one of our rather more wealthy relatives (nudge, nudge, wink, wink) will appear and fix us up so that these things will happen before the end of 2012. However until that point, all donations are gratefully received. Paypal accepted.

Then, we will be able to decorate and put the whole furry, stinking mess behind us. 

As an unusual although incredibly welcome Christmas present to ourselves.

*I like to say 'we' - it saves me having to explain how Dave did all the real stuff and I danced about shrieking, convinced that there was a maggot in my hair after the removal of each slat.