Here’s a longer version of something I just wrote on alt.music.mike-keneally…
Today, it being a bank holiday, traditionally a time when men are ordered by their wives to “do some things around the house”, I found myself being guided helplessly by the firm hand of tradition, albeit in a non-married (and not exactly spouse-enforced) way.
It was a wonderfully warm spring morning, the sky was blue and the sun’s rays made me feel good about cutting the grass, pulling up weeds, watering all the plants (including the French [not "freedom"] tarragon which magically appeared from a little pile of mulch for the second year running) and generally tidying up. I got dirt under my nails, my shorts started to slip down from sweaty exertion (although not quite to the point of displaying a builder’s bum) and I was enjoying myself.
A little later, I embarked upon one of the various jobs which make up the overall “make our dining room usable” project, removing all the sagging, crumbling and very old plaster from the brickwork inside one of the large cupboards under the stairs. I got plaster dust in my hair, up my nose and in my lungs. I hate the smell of old plaster, and I hate the feel of being covered in a thin, dermatitis-inducing coat of the stuff. My snot is still coming out a strange shade of brown. It was good to finish the job, clean up, have a shower and admire the bare brickwork, but I think I prefer domestic chores when I can enlist the help of Mother Nature…