Mortar Life Than Building

Reader forgive my (in)conspicuous absence. This has been due to a new plan of attack involving getting home from work and building, building, building, until it gets too dark to see. The latter is usually gauged at the point at which shoes/neighbours’ cats/Jade’s cakes, become mistaken for concrete blocks and are subsequently mortared into place.

   We are at the not-quite-halfway-up-the-wall stage. I am dreaming in mortar and drowning in blocks. The haphazard weather conditions means that this can be done in a range of attire, from the sullen teenager-in-hoodie-and-ripped-jeans effect, to the ancient hotpant and steel toecaps combination (and that’s just Alex!). The pair of us have been getting on (in)famously, and have replaced everyday domestic bickering with bitterly fought sparring duels about consistency of mortar. 

   Ours is a passionate relationship, in which sweet nothings are substituted by peals of ‘I’m going to throttle you with the pointing trowel if you knock that brick’ and ‘knock your block off’ can have a range of three dimensional,15kg, rectangular meanings. Tempers and wall insulation frayed, we soldier on, listening to Die Walkure and other strident classicals in order to keep our spirit(levels) up. 

   Nevertheless, there is a simplistic therapy derived from pointing bricks and breaking blocks. Particularly after a day spent taming feral teens and doing-whatever-it-is-an-engineer-does when they aren't changing lightbulbs. Evenings usually culminate in a cupboard dinner in-front of the chimnea at the bottom of the garden and a glass (or 3) of wine. Sat in front of the flames, rainsoaked hoodies steaming, it feels like there is a light at the end of the tunnel...or it may just be the headlights of an oncoming Wickes lorry...