Show Home Charade.

For all the good thats come out of today, receiving a massive compost bin and having Dave the carpenter over to sort out some issues, nice guy, drinks at the same pub as I will when I’m allowed to, against all the bad things which happened; ordering some Wellies for my son and realising when they came i’d ordered baby wellies. There was no lego man in the picture to provide perspective, how was I supposed to remember there are 2 size 3 1/2’s? The rain cleared and the sun shone through, i’d cleared the builders rubbish from the front which they said they’d do, which I didn’t expect them to, I believe they were just opening their mouths and noise came out seeming to think i’ll swallow their hollow promises, as they trapped back to the Site hut and shut the door, snug around the gas heater smoking cigarettes.

No, the blot on this particularly interesting cloud swirled horizon was the imminent arrival of the lady from the show home; the over powdered, over lipsticked lady of a certain age who sleeps with her dogs, bottle blonde and dressed in a slightly tired tight trouser suit, pin heeled stilettos, stepping out of a car, lets say liberally dusted with horse hairs. She’s the woman here to sort out all our snagging woes, she’s the woman of my dreams, the lady sent like manna from Paradise (where Mrs T, coincidentally has taken the dog on a walk to) leaving me to offer little dissent and button my lips as the show home lady told me she’d written a letter to Boris Johnson complaining about the Welsh Immigrants; stealing our men, our jobs, our houses. How could I not have guessed she would be a raving racist bigot? Nodding sagely and offering the odd, yes and well quite, as she continued on this lonely diatribe of misinformation and Daily Mail soundbites. Biting my lips as she hovered by the door and told me how she sanitised and took off gloves here, replaced another pair then sprayed all her food with disinfectant whilst wearing a mask because she a) cares about herself and b) cares about other people and always wears a mask unless she’s in our house, a chaotic woman of huge contradictions and pent up hatred for anyone apart from her self. But the trick is to not offend her, she is my angel of mercy and the conduit between myself and the developer, as she grabs a quick feel of the ageing whisky nosed site manager, he’ll buckle one of these days and she can grab a quick shag in the bedroom of the show home before all the houses are sold. So I have to be nice, I have to keep chat to business and get the list sorted by the time the houses are sold and she moves on to pastures new and fresh meat.

Tomorrow, I think, I shall fit my compost bin.

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