Diary of a House: Thursday Dramas

I arrive on site as Pete is leaving in high dudgeon. He tells me he'll have to take my laundry door off or it could get wrecked. It all comes out in a big rush. What's happened is he can't shut the laundry door as Lance needs to run a cable through for his heater. Not only that, but his posts are also too big, marginally. He hasn't calculated for the plaster. I watch him go and take a deep breath. Some things have to go wrong. Not usually with Kirk though, or they are sorted with a minimum of fuss. Pete has red hair.

Inside Lance is painting the enamel and Ian, the tiler arrives, with the ingredients for shower installation. Theresa arrives too. We're all parked illegally but it's pick up from school, the time when College Ave becomes a car park jungle. I'm watching everyone come and go. Ian's girls pull up and they get to work. I follow Theresa out the back and chat while she prunes. Kahu's tree, which has never had much of a trim because I don't know what to do, is first. It's a weeping cherry and his placenta was taken out of the freezer and planted under it on his first birthday as part of a naming ceremony. It's his birth tree. I used to take pictures of him under its blossoms every spring. Not lately but I can feel a photo ambush coming on this year. I point out other chaotically growing trees and we trim a few. Theresa takes foliage from the olive which she'll use in her bouquet supply business. It's a good trade.

When I venture back to the front Lance and Ian are chatting. Ian's considering whether he could park his camper at the front if Covid locks us into Level 3. Tradee chat is always enlightening. Today we are focused on the short term future and whether we'll be staying at home more. I spend time in the freezing cold tidying up the pruning. I'm chilled to the bone by the time I leave and clutch cups of coffee at the regional PPTA meeting. I'm so used to formal meetings I could run one in my sleep. Not sure if that's a good thing but someone has to be on all these committees. I blame my mother who was a succour for being actively involved. Someone's got to.