Recovery Time (Another Boring Installment).

Being officially sick is no bad thing. Not properly sick, just officially sick you understand. Though can't say my days off have been super relaxing. Trouble is with time off is there's just so many things to do. And deciding to redecorate my bedroom seemed such a good idea.

Ma Ding came over to assist the last couple of days, with the stripping down and preparing of the walls, telling me on the phone how she would not be allowing me to do anything strenuous. However her sympathy pretty much ran out when she saw I was fine, and when Schwesty gave her the low down on how I'd spent a fair part of my recovery lying in Regent's Park drinking cider, and jigging around to the (as always marvellous) Seth Lakeman (a word to Shaggy who visited me over the weekend, who is having a shitty time at the mo, and who survived my company, my frankly awful Spinach Frittata - grit in your omelette is not a sign of a good chef I hear - and the baffling entertainment we offered, with ever good heart).

HOWEVER NOW I AM ON MY OWN, I AM SICK OF ALL THE DUST AND NOT BEING ABLE TO GET TO MY CLOTHES WITHOUT UPSETTING AN INCH THICK LAYER OF GRIME, OF NOT HAVING AN ACCESSIBLE BED, AND WORST OF ALL, HAVING GOT NOWHERE NEAR FINISHING, WITH ALL ASSISTANCE HAVING GONE HOME / GONE ON HOLIDAY. ARGGGGGGGG. IT LOOKS LIKE A DERELICT HOSPITAL.

Am currently trying to persuade myself to continue sanding before going down the shops to buy some samplers. Oh but it will be beautiful (better than the wonderful pink and yellow colour scheme of the previous owner). This is what I am telling myself. Over and over again. Reckon I've got at least another day or so of hard graft before it's even ready for the final finish. And that's completely ignoring the bare, untreated, rough as shit, floorboards.