Agley, aft, ganging

When I think of "the best-laid plans" etc, I always think of eggs. I can't help it. *has food on the brain*

But eggs are notoriously vulnerable to breakage, much like plans and agleyage. Omelettes, etc.

I had just this moment started a new chapter, with the prospect [I was going to say "the prospect ahead", but I think a prospect is ahead by definition, isn't it? Like a gambit is an opening move?] of a trek through the rain to the Lit & Phil, and a firm march onward fictionwise.

Then someone knocked on my door.

Turned out to be the nice workieperson who fitted the selfsame door, coming back as promised (!) to finish off the interior. He has measured up, and will return again (he says) at 1.00pm to do the work.

Which means I have to be here by then, obviously; but it also means that I have to shift a loaded bookcase before then, so that he can access the, y'know, wall. Which means I have to make a space somewhere else to put the bookcase, after I have unloaded it, before I load it up again. Which means...

Basically, what it means is I'm not going to the Lit & Phil today. It may mean I'm not doing any work today. It may also mean I don't get to eat lunch (I can't cook, with the cats mewed up and men working in the house), but hey.

In other news: I have now heard what my new door sounds like, being knocked upon.

That knocker has to go.

It produces a thin tap-tap, which I wouldn't have identified as a summons if Barry hadn't been in my lap and suddenly alert to it. I distrusted it anyway, because it looks disproportionately dainty next to the great gold handle on the door; whoever put them together has no eye for balance. I want a big thundering ring of a thing, the sort of ring you'd put through Zeus's nose next time he comes down as a bull.

Hmm

Y'know, I was pleased on Monday when the workiepeople turned up out of the blue and said "No, no, no need to move the bookcase, we can work around that..."

And lo, they did work around it: they ripped out the door-frame and plaster that it practically abutted against without shifting itself an iota. And I was pleased.

Until now, when I am rediscovering what in fact I already knew: viz, how filthy building-work is. If they had given me the notice that they promised, I would have moved the bookcase before they came, and my books (the SF hardbacks, case one) would not now be covered with builders' dust and ancient plaster and general crap. Sigh.

Still. It's no use expecting me to keep books in good condition; I cannot do it. Stuff happens. Mostly to the valuable ones, I find.

This morning's revised plan:

Drink coffee
Make bread (in progress)
Do laundry (in progress)
Shift books (in progress)
Listen to David Bowie (in progress)
Drink more coffee

That's enough, for now.

Update

The workiepeople are here. Early!

Happily, I had just finished moving the emptied bookcase, so my reputation as "a good lad" goes untarnished. (It is very odd, being "lad" and "young man" to people who I swear are no older than I am, at least in years. The nice joiner had a heart attack three months ago, which makes him older in experience; not much outranks a heart attack. 'Specially when I then go and startle him...)

As usual, I don't know what to do. They are too much distraction for me to work; and they're right at the heart of the house, and I feel an idle idiot passing by and passing by, making an evidence of my not-workingness.

So I am sitting here, and have read my friendslist, and what now? I could google Daniel Fox, I guess, see if anyone's bought his book this week...

*fidgets*

Yeah, that's what I figured, really

They are building me an ugly MDF box around my door, to replace the lovely original framework they ripped out in the process of installing it. Hey-ho.

Oh, and while I'm grumbling (let me be clear, there are many fine things about this door, among which security and insulation rank highly; also, it is black; but just at the moment I do seem to be grumbling, so...), did I mention the letter-flap? It is in many ways a fine letter-flap: it has flaps both inside and out, and draught-resistant brushes within; but it is tiny. Also, hard to push post through, on account of all those flaps and brushes; everything comes through creased, that comes through at all. No book will ever pass its brushy lips. When I moved in here, I fitted an enormous letter-flap, specifically to allow books, to save that mad scramble out of bed and into bathrobe when the postman knocked; hereinafter, the poor man will be treated to all the unpleasantness of a bed-sour Chaz on a regular basis, I foresee.

Which will be another reason to find a knocker that will actually wake me with its summons. I think it'll need to be long and thin, rather than the great hefty ring of my desires, if it is to fit between the faux panelling. A chili pepper would have been perfect...

So

The workiepersons are done and gone, the box is complete, the cats are sniffing around the strange changes and interesting sniffs of MDF and silicone.

I could have late lunch, if I had any lunch-appropriate food in the house. The bread won't be ready for hours (I must've been lucky with my first sourdough starter, the one where I made three consecutive and increasingly perfect loaves and then just forgot to save a piece of dough and had to start again; the two starters I've experimented with since have been far less enthusiastic to rise and much less resilient in the oven), but I must have noodles. I always have noodles. And I have greens and ham and eggs and chillies and onions and garlic and sambal and such. That sounds like a lunch.

And then, what to do with the rest of my day? I suppose I could think about decorating the hallway, if I had any notion what colour to paint it. The door is black; there will be no carpet, as soon as I get around to ripping it out (later today, quite likely); it faces north, and the only natural light is the fanlight above the door. Ideas?