Today has proved remarkably dull.
Dave has been doing things with pipework, wiring and other things I don’t really understand.
He arrived first thing, armed with several sheets of plasterboard. Some of these he’s sawn in half and nailed into place where the old walls used to be. The latter, Dave insists, were ‘shot to pieces’, especially after the tiles had been removed, and it would be a ‘false economy’ to plaster them from scratch.
He quoted for new walls at the outset, so I’m not keen to economise any more than I already have in giving the job to Dave. As opposed to someone who was more expensive, but probably better qualified. If I’m paying for new walls, then I want new walls.
According to the news, the stock market’s gone belly up again. They say it’s because the economy is shrinking and too many people are out of work in Europe and America.
No it’s not. It’s because the markets are run by a bunch of gangsters who make the Cosa Nostra look like Ant and Dec. No one makes them buy and sell as if shares are going out of fashion. (Which, for all some of mine are now worth, they might as well be.)
Dave’s got no time for what he calls the ‘Hitlers in the City’. He says he’d have them all put up against a wall and shot. Only in the feet, though, because, as he says, he’s not ‘a violent man’.
I’m not sure that if someone shot me in the feet I wouldn’t regard that as a tiny bit violent, but I’m with him up to a point. We part company only to the extent that I’d shoot them in the feet to begin with, then consider my next move once I’d reloaded.
Dave works late – not going home till gone 7. It’s because this is the Queen’s Jubilee weekend, so he won’t be in again till Wednesday.
Dave is a Royalist and proud of it. I tell him that I am, too. We both agree that the country would be in a far better state if Her Majesty were to assume supreme power. Prince Philip is a man with his head screwed on, says Dave, and would make a better prime minister than the current one, or, indeed, any of the mob we’ve had since Winston Churchill in the 1950s.
I’m not sure I’d go that far, but I don’t tell Dave, otherwise we’d have a discussion about it and he’d never go home.
Mrs C telephoned this afternoon. Her sister in Kent is organising a street party and has asked if I’d like to pop down for a few days. Normally, I steer clear of Mrs C’s family for reasons I won’t go into here, but, in view of the grime, lack of sink and half the walls in the bathroom currently absent, I decide that a few days away might, on this occasion, make a pleasant change.
I’ll set off first thing tomorrow. Mrs C’s sister doesn’t own a computer and I don’t own a laptop. So if you don’t hear from me till next week, don’t go calling the police.
Thought for the Day
‘If the cap fits … it’s probably yours.’ Herbert J Crump (no relation)