Harry Paterson

New kitchen. Aye, cool and that. Less cool, by a margin of some considerable width, was the inspired idea of the gang foreman to leave the kitchen door wide open while he and his heavy-handed brethren of toil commenced wrecking operations.

After all, there can be few things calculated to lift the spirits of a weary, middle-aged hack in quite the same way as the two-inch layer of dust, comprising equal parts brick and plaster, that greeted my arrival home at the end of Day 1.

Said dust, while lacking, perhaps, the reputation of its volcanic Icelandic cousin, nevertheless compensated with a remarkable capacity for thoroughness. Clearly demonstrated by every single surface, object and thing in the entire house sporting a layer or three of its persistent clinginess.

In fact, after just five minutes of simply standing still in the middle of the room, I looked like a cross between the Corpse Bride and Carl McCoy’s replacement in Fields Of The Nephilim.

Other glad tidings arrived in the form of the hob dying, the extractor joining it and then the tumble dryer coming out in solidarity with its domestic comrades, clearly thinking, “Fuck it. One out, all out”.

SheWhoIsNeverWrong, displaying a perseverance that would induce crippling bouts of low self-esteem in the aforementioned Rambo Dust, was never gonna let a trivial thing like a life-threatening aneurysm on the brain bring a halt to her gallop. Accordingly, she enthusiastically commissioned the acquisition of sundry new appliances to the tune of several hundred further pounds.

“Ooh! We need a new extractor fan as well”

“Why? Is the old one bolloxed?”

“It’s white”

“And that’s a problem because…?”

Long suffering sigh. Eyes rolling. Patronising tones.

“…the new hob is silver”. Followed with, admittedly unspoken but very definitely thought, “…you nob”

I’ve also enjoyed the absence of electricity for whole days at a time, too. Oh, and the perishing cold whistling through the house as the wrecking crew insist on working with every window and door wide open to the elements. Yeah, that was fun, too.

All of which is particularly helpful, given the current workload is backing up like a rush-hour tail-back on the M25. So Peter, if you’re reading this, I know the Black Veil Brides interview, part three, is over a week late but I’m on it, you know? Soon. Promise.

Talking of work, though, good things are flying in at dizzying speed from a multitude of directions, one of which will involve a trip home to God’s Own Country to do some research for a mate’s current project. Such trip will involve the receipt of Uncle Donald’s singular hospitality, lubricated, as it always is, by limitless supplies of uisge beatha.

Of course, being away from home, right now, is massively inconvenient and, as you can imagine, I’m suitably gutted by the prospect.

Yeah.