303. Big bang, little bang

This is reminiscent of years gone past. What is happening? Am I in a time warp? First the kids noisily taking over the whole house wanting pancakes for breakfast and doughnuts for tea. (Did I bring them up like that? They must have picked that up from their friends.) Then my husband acting like we've just bought the house. He has pulled down the wallpaper from the dining-room walls and is now perched atop a stepladder (an old one that I do not trust) and he is examining the wall over the mantelpiece. Like some egyptologist who has been working too long under the fierce sun he is brushing a square inch of brick wall lightly with his dusty fingers.

'That's damp.' 

I freeze. That is his way of saying: I want to knock it down. I notice a hammer on the top step of the ladder. 

'Maybe it's just cold. It's below zero out there ... We'd know by now if it was damp ... surely.'

I am staring at the wall, pressing my hand on the cool (damp?) surface, half-expecting to set some mechanism into action that will reveal a secret locker full of ... A clump of rubble runs down over my fingers. My husband is on the stepladder just above me and he has just given the wall a sharp sudden knock with the hammer (is this where Miss Muddy-Boots gets it from ... the hammer thing?) and before I have time to assess the situation more rubble comes down. My husband keeps banging, thrilled with the results.

'See! It's damp. Look!'

Bang goes the hammer. Crumble goes the rubble.

'I knew it. Remember I said one day we'd have to knock it down as the damp will keep rising?'

I do not recall anything like that at all. At the time I was probably busy breastfeeding and changing nappies. Or simply not listening to stories about damp in the walls. To me turning the heating up could solve the problem.  

'We need to do this. It's good I can do this now.'

He is referring to his resignation. Surely he's not resigned because of damp in the wall! BANG. BANG. BANG. This time a whole chunk of (damp) plaster comes down.

'Hey! Watch out! 

The following day when I get back from work the downstairs floor is like a building site. The furniture has been moved and there are sheets over most things which means I cannot find anything - not even the coffee machine. My husband is up there on the step ladder, banging away, a big grin on his face.

'I tell you, I'm glad I did this. There's so much damp. Look at the bricks! They're lovely, aren't they? Now at least they can breathe and dry out.'

I have visions of bricks lying down in the sun, red and yellow with white crisscross lines, smily faces drawn over them with sticks for arms and legs. 

I am back to living with noise, dust and slaloming around the displaced furniture. Time warp feeling.

A friend I had not seen for a very very long time comes round for coffee. (There has also been a succession of meeting up with friends from years gone by increasing the time-warp feeling).

'Oh!' She exclaims, laughing. 'Still doing work on the house?' She pauses and looks at the building site.

'You know I tried to sell my house because I couldn't face having putting up with building work! And I remembered you living in a building site, as if nothing was the matter, and all the kids and piles of papers to mark on very available surface! I quit selling and put up with the housework.'

She laughs again. I do too.

'Maybe this time I'll have a house-warming party!'

We end up chatting for the whole afternoon as I forgot I had report cards to fill in. I'll have to grovel to the secretary tomorrow. But who cares when you're in a time warp? 

I go to the kitchen and my phone is flashing messages. Piles of tiny cards with Miss Organiser's smiling face on them. What now. Is she in a timewarp too? 

'Mum? Can you call?'

'Need to speak to you. Call please.'

'I have plans I need to go through with you.'

'Big plans.'

'Job I'd like to apply for.'

'In Tahiti.'