First of all, I have to apologise to all the builders who I have been slagging off (see Can you keep a secret? post) as uncaring incompetents, and all the developers as grasping and ruthless businessmen. I reserve the right to slag them off in the future, though.
Those 17th century beams I told you had been cut out are, in fact, still there. A builder has turned up to work this Sunday, and he pulled back the tarpaulin to prove it. All they have done is put a thick timber spacer on one beam to support the rest of the new woodwork (as seen in the photo) which is just what I would have done when a builder.
I think I should tell you how this misunderstanding occurred. I came home the other evening (yes, yes, from the pub...) and asked H.I. if they had been working on it that day, and she replied that they had. I said that at least they had saved the two huge old timbers, and she said 'no they haven't, they took them out today'. I asked if they had used a chainsaw, and she said that she thought they had.
Knowing that it is as impossible to mistake the sound of a chainsaw as it is to talk over the top of it, I believed her. I should have remembered that this was H.I. talking, and she may have forgotten what a chainsaw sounds like when someone is running one at full throttle right outside your kitchen window.
So the feeling of hopeless melancholy which ruined my evening was all for nought.
If there is a lesson to be learnt here, it is that most feelings of hopeless melancholy serve no useful purpose other than to ruin your evening, but I bet I forget this lesson very soon.
A happy ending.
ReplyDeleteSort of.
DeleteThank you for reminding me how pointless these feelings are, because that's exactly what I feel now, for other reasons of course.
ReplyDeleteFor me, it is the accumulation of little things - and they usually are little.
DeleteFor me it's the same thing as strange as it may seem.
DeleteNo, not strange Yael. Lots of straws on the camel's back.
DeleteReading this line made me change my blog today
ReplyDelete" If there is a lesson to be learnt here, it is that most feelings of hopeless melancholy serve no useful purpose other than to ruin your evening"
I wish I could remember it when I feel like that.
DeleteI must say, that is a fine picture of unreserved reconstruction.
ReplyDeleteAre you talking about the building or my state of mind, Joanne?
Delete:-)
DeleteWell all's well that ends well in this instance Tom. One step at a time eh?
ReplyDeleteThere is only a limited number of steps left.
DeleteYou are quite the philosopher, Tom, and I agree with John Gray that your summing up should be chiseled in stone upon my fireplace so I can read it and remember. And I like a man who can admit when he's wrong. You are a real gentlemen.
ReplyDeleteIt would be difficult not to admit it in this case, what with about half a ton of timber as evidence to the contrary.
DeleteOff topic, but a few blogs back you asked whether I knew you ;) answer must be no, though I do know Walcot Street with great affection walking all the way to Tridias for toys. But it suddenly struck me that you we may have had an acquaintance in common, the Cliffes, Henry and Valerie. Henry was an artist (and sculptor I believe) and they lived in Weston Park until Henry's death when Valerie moved to a flat until her sad death, I think they both worked at the Bath School of Art. She had a sumptous collection of books I remember.
ReplyDeleteI'm afraid I did not know the Cliffes, though H.I. seems to recall them. She teaches/taught there. I knew Tridias and Robin who owned it. Their last premises is now Farrow and Ball.
Delete