Writing this from a room clouded with the nasty, sharp reek of primer fumes. Horrible it is. To top it all, our painter is a zealous old man, determined to go that extra mile for us, while we keep trying to curb his enthusiasm and make him do less! He's disgusted with our lack of moral fibre and tenacity, and at our protestations. It's hot, it's stinky and there's that ghastly persistent cement dust all over the place... no amount of washing your feet can rid you of it. It follows you, unseen but felt, like a family curse.
Nayana is most disturbed by it all. We kept her at mom's for two days and when she came back, she looked up at the dark grey cement blotches on the wall and said, "Wot happen? Who bwoken nayanu house?" She informed us then that she was 'skaid' of it all. We're camping at our neighbour's place and it's confused the heck out of her!
Oh, and in a fit of pique, I went all Jean d'Arc and chopped my hair off in front of the mirror above the washbasin. I'm sure I shocked the primer-applying painter (not the oldie) in the kitchen out of one year of his life at least!