My beautiful courtyard looks like a bomb site! Builder bloke Gordon arrives to do a job for the neighbour`s window which overlooks my yard and while up aloft he takes grisly pictures of my roof with tiles missing and rotten timber. I am just leaving to go to stay with old friend B in Cornwall and he assures me he will sort the whole thing out while I am away, `don`t worry Vicky Darling` he says `I`ll water your hanging baskets as well, leave it all to me` I feel dubious but I leave to tackle the traffic jams on the M27. I have just returned to a scene of utter desolation, even the cat is covered in dust. I have no idea what is happening up on the roof, but I have always been afraid of climbing ladders even when I was young and nimble. I just hope that Capability Jordan does not pop round, it would break his heart. Gordon says it will be done by the weekend. I do not believe him.
My bad back is miraculously cured. Was it the acupuncture administered by daughter J or was it sitting in a boiling hot car immobile in traffic for hours on the M27, the A 303, or the A 30? Or the hard mattress on the bed in Cornwall? Who knows, but I am now walking upright with a spring in my step.