In which a walk was almost taken.
This was going to be a post in which Big Boy Herbert and I had a gentle stroll around the local environs and took some more amateurish photographs. Except that His Royal Impulsiveness stole the chicken meant for the soup and was banished to the garden to repent of his sins. (Incidentally, when we drove to the pound almost a year ago it was to bring home his brother, a harlequin Dane called (poor boy) Patch. Somehow, in spite of being assured that Remington (who was then Onyx) was very much the naughtier, the more intelligent and the more dominant of the two, we ended up with him. And they spoke no word of a lie, bee tee dubs).
And so it was that we went, Herbertless, to the house. Unfair on Elsie, I know. And yes, they both got a walk later.
And so it is that this post became (enthrallingly) a post about sandstone and the stripping thereof. Because when one has No Life, one has instead many hours (and indeed a moral duty) in which to make one’s sandstone pristine.
though in the spirit of truth-in-advertising I should say that this is not actually the stone I stripped. And in the spirit of confessionalism I should reveal that I am not an orderly worker but more of a fibbertyjibbet, flitting from one tantalisingly loose patch of paint to the next. What I really love is when I insert my scraper into one of the indentations made by the convicts’ tools, and a shower of lime plaster and paint falls to the floor (or into my shoe) and the indentation is gloriously, exhilarating clean. Another confession, since that seems to be the modality - if there had been a career in picking at things, I would not be wandering about life now looking for the meaning of it all. In fact I suppose I did have a career in picking – but you couldn’t get in there with a scraper.
And so on and so forth. But that’s for another day. Today I am in bed sick, with a virus kindly donated by Miss Pimp.