And on and on it goes

You've all heard how people beat their heads against walls in sheer frustration and because of lack of alternatives. Alack and alas, and woe. One thing leads to another, inexorably, it seems. How does one avoid things being inexorable? Just because it is a lovely word does not mean we want to have it inflicted upon us.

Here I am, in the throes of fixing my rising damp problem, and on and on it goes. One thing leads to another. The floor is there, looking rather lovely, albeit still covered each day (despite the best efforts in wielding the broom) with fine dust, covering everything, and reducing the owner of all this dust, ie, me, to the dismals of despair, wandering around wiping away, without  prospects of achieving dustlessness.
We, that is Fernando and I, are coming to the end of the 8th week, and I would have thought the end should have been well in sight, if not receding rapidly into the past. Alas, No, one thing leads to another.

Inexorably (there is THAT word again), the ninth week approaches. I am off to Melbourne tomorrow, for a family christening and some birthdays -my grandson's, my son in law's, my son's, and there is a new great niece, who is about the 30th grandchild to be born to my numerous family. October is evidently a good month in which to give birth.

Having resigned myself to the 8th week, somehow or other I did not foresee that further disasters were about to envelop me. This morning Fernando discovered that my hot water service is leaking and thus needs replacing.  He had already pointed out that a) it was rather old, and that b) it should have been sitting on a tray. Both these defects are about to be remedied. I have to get a new hot water thingy and Fernando will install it. He can, it seems, do anything and everything. I hope he does not see me as the bottomless pit, because I am by no means such a thing.

Fernando has been painting the walls. This is an open plan house. This means there is a serious lack of doors, and that walls go right through from one room to the next. Thus, where can one stop painting? And there are windows composed of glass bricks, and the walls around these seems to be seriously defective. Alas and woe. Will it never be finished? It seems not.

My light switches are dangling from the walls, the dust abounds, remnants of paint cling to my sink, and I cannot find anything at all. For a person who seeks to reassert control over her life, to combat the ferocious blows of a malign fate (sob, sob) it is all a bit much.

This afternoon, as Fernando was on his way out, I got him to lift this piece of hard foam, originally inserted to stop Dr P from tripping when he went from the breakfast area to the toilet through the laundry (a frequent trip, given his prostate problems). Now that there is a new and lower floor, the plastic piece is too high and thus needed to be fixed in case I trip on it and fall, (more sob sob) and lie there undiscovered for months...... Having levered  it off, the tiles came up with it, and thus this too needs to be fixed. Where will it ever end?

I have been attempting to blot out harsh reality buy crocheting furiously, and have just completed a cot blanket. I hope one of the family will like it, so will take it down as an offering, but if rejected, I am sure it can find a good home and purpose somewhere around here. It is in shades of purple (surprise) and came about because years ago I had crocheted a number of squares, but not enough of them to make a whole blanket. And then, of course, it became impossible to buy more of the same wool. Waste not, want not, I said, and thus crocheted furiously around them all, and in the twinkling of an eye have completed a blanket. Now all it needs is a good home and a baby. Purple is a good unisex colour, yes?

I went shopping today for baby presents, and came away depressed at the inexorable (there is that word again) pink for girls, and cars and trucks for boys divide.  However, banish sorrow, banish care, I am looking forward to meeting these new babies, and hope to give them a few cuddles. I just love little babies.  The way they snuggle softly into your shoulders, snuffling softly. The newness of them. Their responsiveness. How human they are, right from the word Go. The way you can engage any little babe, smiling into their eyes as they lie in their prams, and how they look at you and smile right back. We are hard-wired to love babies, I fervently believe.

Is this why I keep crocheting cot blankets?