The Chicken Little Disaster

Create a space the good book says. No, not that good book, the one that I was reading a millennium ago. “It doesn’t have to be a big space, just somewhere for you.” The book installs the virtues of having a happy home and women being able to create a room of their own to do whatever it is that women do when they get creative.

So I decided to clear the spare room which was once my office back in the days when I could write and paint. Before the Chicken Little disaster. What’s that, you ask. That my friends was the day the ceiling fell down on our heads, two years ago. I don’t think I ever recovered, not fully.

It all begun, as all good stories do, at the beginning. Mark got up, after I’d made his coffee and brought it up for him, turned the lights on and opened the curtains and screamed delicately in his ear that he had to shift his ‘arris. He sat down stairs for his constitutional, whatever it is he does in the morning, it always takes about an hour. This is the only man that can get up at 6am and not leave the house to 8:15am, having spent an hour in the bathroom, an hour downstairs, doing whatever and 15 minutes in the shower. The hour downstairs is a quiet time for me and I’ve taken to going to the Gym in the morning instead of waiting for Mark to shift himself into first gear.
This morning was no different apart from the statement of “I can’t go to work today.”

“Why not,” I replied.

“Because I can’t have a shower.”

At this point I was feeling a bit irritated and knew how a 5 year old must feel when confronted with a parent that only draws the outline of a story.

“Why?” I asked again.

“Because there is water running down the light fitting in the dining room.”

Ok call me cynical but I would have thought that would be a reason to panic and not something to be left whilst you sat for an hour doing God knows what.

A week later we thought we had it sorted, the plumber had come in and sealed the pipe under the bath, thought to be the problem. But there where forces afoot that were unbeknown to me. For secretly beneath the calm exterior of the bathroom floor a pool of water gathered as slowly water seeped surreptitiously into the cavity between floor boards and ceiling plaster. It took eight months of constant planning and aquatics for the water to win through and bring the dining room ceiling crashing down to the faux wooden floor beneath. The adjoining wall to a sodden end and my life to ruin.

Having gathered my dining room up in boxes I loaded my office. There my dining room now sits, no longer neat in boxes but scattered across the room, through months of searching for bits and pieces, and never returning things to their rightful abode.

Today I tackle the spare room, as it has not been my office for two years. Today I go in under cover. The enemy needs infiltrating and destroying from within. Taking tactics from the water, I will slowly make my way through, picking a path before rampaging full boar with black bags and boxes.

I’m strong, I am invisible, I am woman, and I’m going to be bloody kernackered by the end of the day.

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