For those of you who knew this all along, I have to admit that of course it looks better today. Ivory grouting between the tiles has put an end to their surprising cardboard-box effect, and the smart matt tiles that I so liked on the display are becoming more apparent here in my bathroom. The toilet has been reinstalled, and the bath is in situ, albeit unusable as yet, but creating hope where yesterday there was despair and self-recrimination.
Mr Certificate the Electrician came for the day - again. More Radio 2, but at least I know many of the words of the songs played there, and can blithely give my age away humming along. The electrics are now installed, entailing some considerable interference with wallpaper and plaster. Putting in new bathroom spotlights that met the stringent latest regulations meant going into the eaves above and drilling holes in the loft flooring, parting the insulation beneath, and making holes in the bathroom ceiling. Now the bits of the lights which, because they are so safe are larger than their old unsuitable predecessors, protrude into the loft and have to be covered by ceramic plant pots or similar - presumably so that ninnies who creep about in cramped loft spaces don't skin their knees on expensive fire-, water- and bomb-proof recessed spotlights. When I moved into this house, I declared that I would never go into the eaves, and apart from once having no option but to position a basin beneath a leaking roof, I have kept my word. Nasty dirty places, full of the Lovely Son's teenage possessions and unloved household goods that he couldn't quite transport to London, and, somewhere, a camera lens that rolled away and could not be found ever again.
The electrician works at glacial speed, and is super-thorough in an OCD sort of way; he has to come back tomorrow to inspect and test his own handiwork and issue me with the required certificate. I think I will frame it, and hang it beside my (very likely) bankruptcy notice.