Before I get started on this update, can I share a moment? We were expecting (to use a very loose term, I think faintly hoping is more what I was doing) that we would have a delivery of top-soil today. Our local top-soil merchant having given us a price which is much better than one of the national companies (but also means it's almost certainly not screened, graded soil). Yesterday they didn't turn up, and I had a little book running in my head regarding today's excuse.
a) had problems with equipment
b) over-ran on the previous job
c) got stuck in traffic coming back from our previous job
d) had to close early due to a sudden onset of bubonic plague
e) were overrun on site by a horde of marauding miniature nuns (skateboarding nuns, no less) demanding all our topsoil for a new convent garden they were building
It was of course e, uh, I mean, a, today. But it did make me wonder, do builders have a magic-8 ball which they shake when a customer rings? Or do they have an excuse of the day message e-mailed to them?
Apparently he will 'personally' deliver the topsoil tomorrow. I will believe it when the annoyingly large pile of dirt is on our driveway.
Anyway, we went to Tummies for lunch, the service was somewhat lackadaisical, not dreadful, but not brilliant. I was slightly less than impressed that they pulled the panini from the chiller (and Kathryn's sandwich) - at the price they're charging I'd expect a bit better'n that (given that for much less in a similarly nice cafe in Brizzy you pull things from the fridge and they toast 'em). But the food was good, and it's a pleasant (and less paint-y) environment. And we needed to celebrate Kathryn's test-passitude.
Anyhow, after shopping and a somewhat lax period of web-browsing, I headed out to the garden to move rubble. I've moved a slightly distressingly small amount of rubble, although I did create the basis for the breeze-blockery (aka rockery, aka good-way-to-disguise-a-pile-of-rubble). It includes, at the moment, an impressively large lump of concrete which I have no means of getting to the tip. Once the earth arrives, we shall pile it all over the damn thing, and then wedge some nicer stones in it, and some of those rockery-type-plants and no-one shall know the evil lying beneath; at least, not until they go forth and attempt to move it.
Plan is to put a fence segment up behind it (between it and the compost bin) and thus hide the big-black compost bin from the view out of the windows. Of course, the big plain brick wall will still be there.
Oooh, there's a lot of fumes in here now, I may have to move.
Anyway, the undercoat's gone on the door frame, Kathryn's working on my anniversary prezzie, (I cheated and bought her something, but it must be said I just looked at it and wanted to give it to her right there and then, so ordering it and waiting was pretty good). Rebecca's booked in to have her exhaust sorted on Friday*, and the oven's on to cook dinner.
Today has been a day where much has been accomplished. Ra :)
ETA: The laptop, incredibly, has a bid on it. i.e. it has sold. Even despite the description.
*I should ring the gearbox reconning company about the gearbox but can't pay for it until I've been paid anyhow. And there's still no signs of the king/swivelpins; a somewhat significant component in the front suspension which have now been on back-order with most MM companies for over a year. A situation which borders on the ludicrous.