I like to hoover. I really do. I suppose I should say that I like to dyson. But dysoning does not and will not ever sound right.
So I hoover. Frequently. Not that you’d really notice.
Last weekend, when Big Seymour started to build the beginnings of the new walls out of the footings, there was some brick cutting going on. The noise was atrocious. It was only when I was able to actually taste brick juice in my mouth when I breathed that I thought about closing the windows.
I doubt it would have made any difference. Brick dust is crafty. Even if I had shut, taped and glued all exits, it would still have found its way in.
It wasn’t long before my window sills had grown a considerable layer of speckled orange fur and I could actually see a mass of tiny particles dancing their way gleefully down to my Bakelite floor. It was a battle I would not win.
But I did not fret. For two reasons:
1) None of the Four Little Seymours are asthmatic, thankfully. And…
2) As the old adage says, you cant polish a turd.
By which I mean that, even if I spent four hours a day on my hands, knees and elbows scrubbing, Kim and Aggie would still send me to the naughty step.
No, our funny little age-worn bungalow won’t ever be immaculate. But that’s fine by me.
One day, hopefully before Little Seymour Number One leaves home, my house will be finished. I will have clean lines, a touch of feng shui and a reduced tolerance for grot.
But then I won’t be rewarded with little gifts like the footprint I found today in the dust, or the arty spatterings and muddy finger paintings smeared on the walls.
It is very easy sometimes to wish that we were at the end of this long renovation journey. But these days are precious. And I intend to enjoy them.
Because life really is too short, and unless it’s a canvas for a child’s footprint, dust doesn’t matter.
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