Today in the Printemps' household, we are past ourselves (quaint old Yorkshire saying that means we are at the end of our tethers, and then some!). Roberto and I are exhausted with painting and decorating all weekend, and just having other people in your house constantly from 7.30 am every morning is exhausting in itself.
Today, Roy the builder went too far. I came upstairs for the umpteenth time, having to squeeze past Big Mike, the plasterer and his son, Mini Big Mike (huge!) , who, between them, took up the entire length and breadth of our hallway, On entering our bedroom where Roy was filling in a gap where an old window had been, I found him in the room with Roberto, my husband, and he was zipping up his jeans. I gasped in horror and said "What the fluff are you doing, Roy?" He replied, "I'm just shaking the rubble out of me undercrackers, Mrs P. Ooh, you've made some more tea." I wanted to cry. It was just all too much.
We called in Bob the plumber because some of his pipes had a few leaks here and there. "It's nothing to worry about, it will all seal itself up", he said. "Liar, liar, pants on fire", I thought. He told us that when he was doing up his house with his girlfriend, Babs, they didn't have any hot water for two months. Call yerself a plumber, Bob? I told him that if I was Babs, I would have kicked his sorry ass.
I met a retired lady I know from our village. She told me that when she had an extension built years ago, she happened to come home one day unexpectedly and found all 13 builders and workmen playing cricket in her back garden. Oh, the joys of building work. Doncha just love it? Well, doncha?
I can't get the image of Roy and his undercrackers out of my head. Think I need to lie down now.