Six months into the renovations and I have so much dust in my lungs I have had to give Stefano an ultimatum.
‘You’ve got to finish by Christmas,’ I told him when he arrived with his men the other morning, ‘or I am going to have to start spending the budget, such that it exists, on emergency healthcare.’
I feel as though I have inhaled the entire house. I’m not sure what was in this house, but I hope it wasn’t anything noxious. It’s Victorian so it ought to be all right, I have been telling myself. But what do I know?
I think I’ve mainly taken on board brick dust and live plaster, the prognosis for which, a swift internet search appears to suggest, is that I should be all right, but then again I might conk out from anthrax poisoning.
I started coughing about two months ago.
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