Lying in bed one night as the rain pounded down, I became aware of a yellow patch forming on the bedroom ceiling. It took shape as I lay there watching it, and before long it had spread into a glorious stigmata of impending ruin.
This would happen. Because it’s not as though for the first year of living in this house I was living with a boyfriend who was a builder, whose original specialist trade was roofing. I must have imagined that.
I did of course ask the builder boyfriend to get up and check the roof but with his usual reverse logic he insisted on starting work in the basement which was, it could be argued, his area of least expertise.
To cut a long, sad story short, for some of you may be sick of hearing it, he was still down there digging a very long time later and indeed he ended up ripping the house to pieces from the ground up.
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