Tesco Man visited us again today. He was impressed, I think, that the plankage leading to the front door no longer bowed in the middle when he carried his load across.
I smugly declared that we were “making progress”, and that next time he comes, who knows? We might be even further on still.
But I couldn’t fail to notice the humour tinged with pity in Tesco Man’s eyes, as he surveyed the bigger picture, before making a fast getaway.
The truth is that we have made progress. But it’s subtle. A day’s work at the weekend gave rise to two concrete rectangles in the pit, which, if I understand correctly are something to do with “padstones for the steel”. But they could be purely cosmetic, for all I know about this messy, disjointed stage we’re at.
Big Seymour was pleased with what he achieved on Sunday. Not least because, as soon as he started up his cement mixer, the belt snapped, and it looked like he’d have to abort. An attempted repair with a needle and green silk thread lasted for 56 seconds, by which point Big Seymour gave up, and went to ask the neighbour if he could raid his tool shed.
Miraculously, a few minutes later, he reappeared with a shiny new mixer, reminding us of the fact that ours too was once orange, and not totally encrusted in sand barnacles.
The Four Little Seymours spent the day moving between the sofa, where they were resting off the excesses of a fun weekend, and the trailer, where the lure of a couple of tons of ballast proved too strong. Boy Seymour went to great lengths to totally bury Big Seymour’s shovel in the stones. Later, when he unearthed it, I had to remove it from him, as he’d been joined by a bare-footed Mini Seymour,and quite frankly, I feared for her toes.
There was a bitter-sweet moment on Sunday when the dumper truck, which has lived with us for the past seventeen months, finally went home. I hated that thing when it arrived. It was old and ugly and very attractive to small children. It was unfamiliar and looked decidedly unsafe.
But it has been useful in its time here – when Big Seymour managed to start it, that is. And he must have nailed starting it, because on Sunday, with very little trouble, he drove it onto the back of the trailer, and thence to its home.
I daresay I shall miss it. The Four Little Seymours certainly will. None of them came a cropper at its hands, and for that, I am grateful. Goodbye, old friend.
In its place, we now have a different kind of child-attracting, heavy metal vehicle of danger, of which I have not yet grown fond. It’s an enormous roller, delivered to ensure that Big Seymour can have the flat lawn of his dreams.
I, for one, rather like divots in my grass. But they are not permitted.
Yesterday, Big Seymour trailed the roller round on his wonky old lawnmower with the look of a man possessed, whilst the Little Seymours scattered grass seed and tried not to be flattened.
In short, there are subtle changes afoot here at the Funny Little Bungalow. Maybe, in a couple of weeks, we may even have the start of a new lawn. But there is one subtle change that is not quite so exciting, and we are starting to feel it now.
A few months ago, Big Seymour saw fit to remove all the insulation from the loft, in preparation for the new roof structure.
Suffice to say, we are nowhere near to getting a new roof structure, and we are still very much living in the Funny Little Bungalow as the winter approaches. As each evening descends upon us, the chill in the air is palpable, and it won’t be long before we will be seeing our breath.
But I shall not despair. The Little Seymours appear immune to such things as room temperature. Barefoot is the shoe of choice, and there’s not one of them that a woolly jumper can’t warm up. Things might get trickier, however, when the roof finally does come off. On the one hand, we’ll be beyond subtle changes by then. On the other, the time will have come to vacate the building.
That’s when the Four Little Seymours move in to The Shed.
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