The sainted Wally is here. In two days, he has stripped the paper off the entire staircase, all three floors (no, it's not a grand house, just a tall thin one) and revealed or even enlarged, cracks and horrible holes in the ancient crumbling plaster. Tomorrow he will fill those holes, and the gaping gaps between walls and skirting boards, and next week he will put up stout lining paper and paint it all. It will have to last another 25 years.
Meantime, the kitten is beside herself with excitement; she has become Wally's Little Helper, and is filthy, climbing ladders, diving into bin bags full of stripped wallpaper, and sitting on trestles watching Wally at work, with a look of intense, fascinated concentration. She may wish to be a decorator cat when she grows up, but I feel that her concentration span isn't up to a proper trade, and anyway, jumping into bin bags doesn't look very professional.
Lottie and the dog, too mature to be so undignified, potter round with me, although unlike me, they don't care about the ever-spreading dust. Nor do they say a word about the stupidity of my major clean-through with Margery yesterday; she hoovered everywhere, and I dusted, even polishing tables. Why, I can't say, really, except to confirm to the world that I am a first-rate dimwit with no foresight.
The dog is her former chipper self; she is cuddle-able again now that her vile breath has been cured by a bit of dentistry, and is loving all the kissy-kissy sympathy from the street aunties. We had a long walk through Armstrong and Heaton Parks this morning, in warmish sunshine, and can sit about and snooze (her) or read (me) this afternoon and feel that we've earned a break, a cup of tea and a dusty biscuit or two.