Tom, Tom, the Tiler’s Son

Jack gets over the line again – –

We are having our main bathroom re-modeled and the guy in charge is called Tom – hence the title of this post.

Wendy had a recent disappointment and as a consolation prize we agreed to get her the nearest thing to the bathroom of her dreams as possible. We did some searching around for potential folk to undertake the work and settled on ‘Tom’.

The trouble is that we quickly discovered that he’s a ‘bletherskite’ – an excellent Scots word for someone who just won’t stop talking. But he mostly talks about anything except the job in hand.

On the odd occasion when he randomly inserts something into the conversation about the job it’s mostly incomprehensible to me. That’s because despite my background in construction, my technical language is from Scotland and it’s very different. For instance, I talked about the stoppers and he talked about the drain and we went about ten minutes waiting for each other to get to the point.

So – a fair bit of mess-communication ensued! Part of that was when he planned to start demolishing the existing stuff. He messaged me mentioning ‘demo’ – well, to a child of the 1960s a demo is when you sit in the road to protest something! When we discovered on Monday that he planned to start the next day we went into a panic because all the bathroom cupboards and closets were still stuffed full. Wendy had just held a yard sale and we had some empty boxes…..

So most of Monday we were desperately removing lots of stuff including things we didn’t know we had or hadn’t seen for years. Then finding where on earth to stash it for the next two weeks. At least we hope it is two weeks. Tom said “15 days” and we can’t translate if that is 15 working days, meaning three weeks????

But Tom and his helper are, right now as I write this, bashing away at the ‘demo’ and I’m hopeful that everything will turn out to be as we want in the end. More correctly, as Wendy wants it.

I’ll keep you posted of course over the next couple of weeks, and yes, we are taking offers of places to shower. Tom has just come in and I asked him about taps.

He cocked his head and said, “You play the trumpet? I came in here to talk to you about faucets.”

But where will we get a bath or a shower in the meantime – – –

Not Gardening in Eden

Yesterday morning my daily Bible reading was Genesis, the creation story. It’s a very beautiful and mysterious story: the water was already there, it had to be gathered, there needed to be separations of many things. It never fails to move me and ignite my curiosity.

Especially yesterday, because after the Earth is full of plants and other things, dominion over them is given to the humans. I was thinking happy thoughts about the long line of connectedness with me putting in a garden, working with seeds and dirt, reaching back to God giving humans the first garden. That whole blowing it thing and the expulsion could wait. Give me my moment.

That moment was coming. Our friend Philip arrived to help, and he weeded one bed while I put up supports for peas in another. Then I went and got a truckload of dirt and compost to amend some soil; it took us 21 wheelbarrow loads to get it in the right places. By 2 pm, that 8 am “what a glorious thing to participate in” was more like “when is this going to be over.”

I doubt muscles in the Garden of Eden screamed “what the hell Lady” at Eve in the afternoon. I doubt their chickens decided eating new seed was better than eating grubs–which we were feeding them every time we found one. I know for a fact that Adam never had a blister on his baby toe from dirt getting inside his shoe and rubbing–they weren’t wearing shoes.

According to the story, at that time getting good food from the plants didn’t involve having to grow them yourself. Taking a line from Genesis, I snipped a bunch of fresh hosta shoots for dinner. Free food we didn’t grow, tasty for the taking. Philip, his partner Geoffrey, Jack and I sat down to last year’s carrots canned overwinter, the hosta shoots, and some nice Scottish Sausage patties Jack put together for us.

Go by mad world. Gardening may not be Eden, and my muscles may have the vocabulary of sailors this morning given the obscenities they are offering up with each move, but it was still fun.