Saturday, February 28, 2015

Goodbye Mr Spock...

Friday 27 February 2015

OMG sun at last 12 degrees

Up and attem with some enthusiasm ahead of the impending visit.  Clean the hall stairs and landings and mop all of the floors.  Open the windows to let in some fresh air.  Why are the bastards sticking?  Oil them with a little WD40.  One has warped.  They are nearly new!!!  Big breaths, I will be zen, I will be zen.  Fortunately none of the month’s torrential rain has seeped through the new paint.  We had the roof replaced three years ago but still, mysterious yellow patches appear in different parts of the ceilings from time to time.  Like a big dog peeing at will on our handiwork.  The worst part is the under roof plaster on the balcony.  A few months ago, I hauled back the roofer to show him the stains and he said he had put in a waterproof material under the new roof – he even got me out on the roof via the kitchen window to look at it – had a Bill Sykes moment and my head swam – and he had to put me back in through the window.  He said it was a mystery.  He didn’t say he was going to fix it and he left.

OH stuck back on the popped off skirting boards and fixed them with some dowel and rather a lot of glue.  He then asked me what I thought of the villainous but reasonably priced sage green gloss which he had brought back from B n Q on his last trip to the UK.  I suggested he mixed it with some white gloss to try and make it look like Irish Spring rather than Miss Haversham's bathroom.  He was all for painting it on every door but I suggested he tried it on the inside of the bedroom door so we could assess it for effect.  I went back to mopping and came back to find he had put it on the door and the window sill.  It wasn't exactly Irish Spring but looked like Miss Haversham had made a bit of an effort.

Back home for poached eggs on 5 cereal toast.  I do love a poached egg, its wobbling yellow dome and just set white surround, like a little space ship just waiting to be pierced by my soldier, dripping with ....  stop it, I am going all Nigella.  Many apologies, dear reader.

At 3 pm I was posted at the front door, waiting for the lady and she was on time.  In her late 30's, at least she could get up the stairs.  I showed her around and she took pictures and said that she was buying as an investment and would put her mother to live in the property. She was concerned about the heating costs due to the high ceilings but said she really liked the unit and it was so light and airy.  I showed her the little unit too, in case she felt the urge to buy a little investment.  She was there 20 minutes and said she would show the photos to her mother and potentially be back on Monday.  I asked if her mother could manage the stairs and she replied that she was just 60 this year so she was still OK to climb them. Realise that I think that 60 is old.  Realise that it is only three years away.  How the f did that happen?

I spent an hour cleaning floors in the new unit and then went for a swim.  You take pot luck at the weekend - sometimes there are so many people that the pool looks like it is full of frogspawn.  Fortunately, a massive amount of wet people were crowding the changing room so I squeezed into a corner to change and found only about 20 people in the pool.  The locals do not swim.  The main things that they exercise, whilst standing around and usually in the middle of the pool, are their jaws.  After I have swum around them a number of times, they move to the sides and watch me, in a Wimbledon type way, going up and down.  No one else does lengths.  There are some funny shaped mature ladies and some very white and wobbly girls in their 20's.  The jacuzzi area is being monopolised by the canoodling couples - the water seems to make them especially passionate and they ignore the matrons who try to get on the bubbling benches.  There are the macho guys, full of tattoos, who position themselves under the swans neck water jets so that the water bounces off their heads with some force, and stabs nearby swimmers.

Leonard Nimoy, alias Mr Spock, died aged 83.  He lived long and prospered.  His last tweet

A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP