Monday afternoon and I have zapped my software with Firefox, a self-induced upgrade on a jaded and dicey computer. Nobody in the known universe uses Internet Explorer any longer, an Internet expertise executive from some town west of the mountains told me. So there we go. My monitor is clicking away at me like a Geiger counter, tick, tick, tick, as if its clockwork heart has a spring loose.
Five burly but lazy men have arrived to continue with the fencing after three weeks away. They are sitting on the grass in front telling rugby jokes and cuffing off one another’s baseball caps.
‘We’re just about there,’ shouted one of them happily, waving to me. I don’t know how he can say that. There are deep holes and mangled vegetation and nothing is in a straight line. This security fencing is going to look ugly, hideous, an eyesore, and I must brace myself. Or go and stick sharp pins in a wax effigy of the landlord. If I ever sewed on buttons or repaired my clothes, I would have pins around. No wax either.
The dog loves everyone. His new delight is to lie sprawled across doorways and similar liminal spaces between worlds and then get up very quickly when anyone tries to step over him. Hooray for the rough and tumble of domestic life! I am so preoccupied with the bad dreams of colossal social failure implied in Occupy Wall Street that I keep forgetting to watch out for unsleeping dogs, a metaphor perhaps.
The fencing constructors are going away again. It is too late in the day for them to get much done, they say, and they all pat the dog and assure me they will be back at the crack of dawn tomorrow or sometime in the near future.