pułapki śmierć

The Boys have ripped out both rooms, one of which has its tiling setting nicely overnight as I type, but all the materials have now been delivered, and there simply isn't enough spare space to store it. So yards (metres) of architrave and other timber lie along the first floor landing, the hall is full of tiles and grouting, and the bathroom fixtures sit in a forlorn and oddly squalid row, upside down and looking out of place, which of course they are. The new cupboards and doors are in Sandra's garage till called for, and the remaining space is filled with the cupboard contents of the emptied rooms - and why any woman needs a large box of shoe polishing kit or dozens of not-quite-finished shower gels and shampoos is beyond me. Mountainear's Granny Thomas would have a field day in this house, with all its grubby secrets exposed and covered in a light layer of plaster dust.

The three small steps down to the bathroom are filled with cables, a radio, and various odds and ends. The Boys are large and strapping, and can take all three steps in one stride, but I have to pick my way gingerly down them far too many times a day, fearing for my life - stairs covered in dust sheets are hazardous enough. I thought I should test my translator site, so I did, and posted a little note on the steps which read "pułapki śmierć". Death trap. This made The Boys laugh, and the steps were promptly cleared. That leaves me with my permanent pułapki śmierć, doddery old Kevin, who specialises in lying on the stairs as a ginger trip hazard.

Suzy is away this week, leaving me her cat to feed and full use of her immaculate bathroom, which I now think of as the spa annexe; I was a bit horrified to see that I made black footprints in her shower when I stepped into it this morning. These would have gone entirely unnoticed in my own house just now.

Roger is back from Vienna, and harvesting large amounts of rhubarb from his allotment. He called yesterday to ask for some powdered ginger and went off with what I gave him. Today he emailed me to say that it had been an interesting addition to the rhubarb, especially as it turned out to be cinnamon. I suppose we should be surprised that I could locate anything at all in the kitchen at present, and he should be grateful that it wasn't tile grout.