Day Two Hundred and Eight

Our new office attracts water with a thirst that makes Hemingway approaching Harry's bar in Venice look like a Mormon tourist from Utah.

After three martinis and with one eye half shut it could be Venetian, but I pretty certain Canaletto would refuse this particular commission.

We need to do more than grade an ounce of earth here, a pinch of mud there.

So, to avoid wading around with the Canadian Geese in 12 months time, Tom has arranged for an engineer to survey the land and let us know the best way to drain, shift and gently persuade the rain to go elsewhere.

This peculiar contraption is one half of a two leg attachment that the 'spacklers' use to reach the ceiling. Incredibly difficult to master I'm told - much like stilts I guess. Novices can be spotted by being black and blue with bruises.

But, the spackling is finished. Who cares about a bruise or two? I know, I'm horrible.

Empty paint pots. The significance is in the emptiness. I'm really horrible.

I picked up the external lights from the store in Hockessin yesterday. I'll post the photographs just as soon as London gives me the nod.