Humpty Dumpty

Back from Swansea, we brought the weather with us: well, not quite the ice when we set out and the snow we had at the airport, but buckets of rain and flooded streets. Today, however, the sun reappeared and we even had lunch out of doors. Maybe the supporters of the kinetic theory of pleasure are right: there are no actual pleasurable states, only the pleasure of passing from one state to another. In this case from numbing cold to a balmy embrace of spring. I wonder whether, come summer, we will crave a reverse kinesis, from heat to fraicheur.

A couple of really important pieces of information have come through. First of all, we are really insured for the parties communes, after fearing that the structure of the house might have to remain uninsurable. Secondly, the co-owner has indeed opted for one of the estimates for the ravalement (stucco), the cheapest of course, and is unilaterally limiting his contribution. Nevertheless, this means that we can start the process of applying for planning permission to have the facade renovated. We've asked for another interview with the architecte de la ville, in the hope of getting the colour scheme accepted, along with the principle, and it is a matter of principle, of knocking the shithouse down...

On the practical front, the other half has done a magnificent job decrudding and reviving the oak table from Morgny. This table, originally constructed by the inmates of a mental asylum, and a gorgeous piece of traditional carpentry, had graced the kitchen in Normandy, but always covered in a toile cirée and subject to the daily spray of fly droppings which accompany rural living. Now it looks like it did the moment it left the inmates' workshop - just splendid, and a fine match for the Norman 'buffet'.

On a slightly more dubious note, we reassembled the old Norman wardrobe. It was one removals too far, I'm afraid, and the poor thing only just resisted being put together. Why was I humming the tune to Humpty Dumpty? When hammering in the wooden dowels which hold the joints together, it really suffered, issuing expletives in the form of groans and woodworm sawdust. After an epic struggle in three, perhaps four dimensions (certainly four, if you count time), we got to the doors. Though well packed with about four layers of bubble-wrap, one of the doors had suffered, loosing a carved wooden flower, and having the glass pane smashed. Nothing that a spot of glazing, and a touch of glue won't cure, though.