On Saturday, I waited for the joiner to turn up to build me a corner wardrobe for my bedroom. At present there is an orange pine-effect laminated chipboard affair that doesn't fit under the sloping ceiling, allowing Hamish to hide in the space behind it whenever he hears me coming up the stairs. Good camouflage for him, he being orange and all that, but visually intrusive in a way that Hamish wouldn't be. If he were visible. If you know what I mean.
There's a lot of orange fake knotty pine in my bedroom; I shall paint it soon. The wardrobe might have been painted too, except for it not fitting under the ceiling, and it won't go down the stairs either, to be given away, and being chipboard, is unlikely to dismantle without some damage. (I know this because its twin, which stood very orangily next to it, couldn't turn the staircase, was dismantled, wouldn't go back together again, and, when I dropped one of the doors on my ankle, causing great pain and dramatic swelling, was taken away
So..... a plain joiner-built cupboard will be replacing it. Tongue and groove, like the one in the dining room. I love T & G.
After waiting a long while, dogs becoming restive, I rang the missing joiner, and asked tentatively if it was today he was coming, wasn't it?
No, he said; next Saturday. Now, this sort of thing happens regularly to me, and I tend to assume that it's my error, my failing memory, my inability to write things down on the right section of the calendar - the right month, even. But I didn't think next Saturday sounded like what we'd arranged at all.
We chatted amicably for a little, and then, in horror-stricken tones, he suddenly blurted "No, it's me! I told you the 27th!" That rang a bell. And it would have worked out well, had the 27th been a Saturday, not a Friday, and anyway, was now past....
So next Saturday it is. Except that he's coming tomorrow. Tuesday.