Mildew no more

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?

Barry the Gas and the Andrews Sisters

Verily I live a strange life at times. At the moment, Barry the Gas is banging around in the back bedroom, trying to weave various pipes through a maze of joists and strangely random pieces of wood which appear to be holding up something, we know not what. We have to stick around to be available for emergency decisions and making cups of tea, for Barry doesn't take lunch breaks - he just works like a man possessed. (Actually I still think of him as GasBoy, but he's growing in my estimation). And next door, in the study, Mr B and I are practising Robin Orr's Jubilate in C, for a gig in Cumbrae Cathedral on Sunday.

So here's your picture for today. Barry bangs, drills and runs up and downstairs. The new flue spouts interesting gouts of steam. Mr B plays fistfuls of notes on the keyboard and I wail, somewhat discordantly, as I get to grips with enharmonic changes and awkward entries. My preferred métier is music of the Renaissance, so the Orr does not come naturally, but I'm getting there. And his wee anthem They that put their trust in the Lord has a lovely alto part and I've got it sussed.

And now Mr B is playing the Andrews Sisters on his iMac and playing along with them - Chattanooga Choo-choo. That'll be for next session with the other choir. Truly, a varied life. The family that sings together .... (complete this sentence, if you like)