Attic Man and Sidekick Gavin have just left, dangerously triumphant and clearly cruising on down for a Friday night out on the town.
They have finished.
Barry The Plasterer has to come back on Monday for half a day to plaster the edges of the hole.
And they need to come back next week and do a hatch for us.
This was not in the original specs, as it was going to be an office and therefore no lockable door was required. However, the view and the feel of the space is so nice that we have decided that we are going to use it as a bedroom. And if we are going to adopt a trio of inquisitive kids with a high probability of having behavioural difficulties, I think that a door of some sort to our bedroom is probably necessary.
Particularly remembering a conversation I had with a friend of mine some years ago, where she claimed that Postman Pat videos were the only thing that had saved her sex life.
Anyway, I digress.
Finished, kind of. In the sense that they haven't ACTUALLY finished.
It's like a Viking Saga. Or possibly the Lord Of The Rings - I feel like I have been tramping round and round Mordor for the last five weeks. All it needs is for a poison spider to leap out from the storage hatches under the eves and wrap me up in a cocoon whilst muttering to itself, and I will know that I don't actually exist, but am trapped in J R R Tolkien's head. He's probably at one of his Oxford cockail parties dressed as an Anglo Saxon and refusing to speak anything other than Old Norse as I type.
B has just phoned to say he is on his way home.
I have arranged kitten care for the weekend. I have bought bagels-and-bacon for a luxury breakfast in bed tomorrow morning. I have washed my pants and found my woolly hiking socks.
I am ready to go away for three days tomorrow and work on not having a care in the world.
Did I mention that the hotel we are staying in has a fabulous menu and a very wide selection of whiskies?