I observe today how easy it is to slip into a condition of permanent chaos. There is even a kind of order to it - the big step over the displaced books, the path round the chairs moved to another room, the complete disregard of clothes hung in the unreachable wardrobe. However, we must return to some sort of normality after les travaux gaseuses (I know: I just made it up) and Mr B is ready to relay the rug which will transform the forlorn dining room. The mildew is gone from the suspect alcove which, long ago, housed the toy cupboard; the plaster-dust and underfloor debris have been swept up three times (though I have a notion to scatter tea-leaves in the time-honoured fashion) and the room in question is positively fragrant.
For now I shall resolutely ignore the boiler and miles of copper piping which have to be boxed in when our brilliant joiner can come round; I shall avert my eyes from the monstrous radiators with which Scottish Gas thought fit to equip us - believing, I think that we could thereby be weaned off our perfidious preference for a fire as our main source of heat - and compose my soul in patience against their removal. As I write, a senior SG person is on the phone to Mr B, and it is to be hoped that he will get the message that we don't want our living space dominated by huge white lumps of metal.
And I hope I don't live to tell you (quote coming up) that chaos is come again. Now, where did that come from?