Year seventeen of my six week house refurbishment. That's starting to grind. Main house still waiting for bits and pieces to be finished up and some final snagging, which is now a game of chase the contractors because they're on another job. The kitchen is now an empty and funky smelling space. Sort of a cross between teenager's bedroom and deused WWII facility. Lots of nasty grunk behind the cupboards that was cleaned off. On the plus side, no actual damp, just a long term flood from a blocked dishwasher, so that's one cheque I don't have to write. New floor and then kitchen should go in next week. They spent yesterday fixing the curiously random and free-ranging wiring. Of course, this puts my breakfast plan on hold.
Oh, and there's a nice scratch down the side of the car which I presume was the contractors removing the old bits of house, but could have been the usual carpark idiocy, so I can't shout at them. C'est la vie.
Because I'm not writing enough cheques, I let myself be dragged to the grand citidel of cut-price Swedish furniture yesterday. Normally, I figure myself lucky if I escape with one lamp and unnecessary green spatula (implement and colour), yesterday was a two trolley megaload of something called Besta. It wasn't ever going to fit in the car, but hey they do home delivery. It would have been nice if I knew that the home delivery option consisted of tomorrow or, erm, tomorrow, as I wasn't planning to be in tomorrow. I had exciting plans for tomorrow. Now I'm doing this.
For a bonus plus, the stupid cat has manked her eye yet again (this is the same cat that put a huge thorn through the same eye and persists in bashing the damn eyeball on every sharp corner she can find). So she's off at the emergency vets (I swear that mog is an underwriter's nightmare, she's a four legged insurance claim).
So, here I am stuck, on Ikea sentry duty. I can't even find the toaster.
