A night on the Tiles

Five long days since I have posted Chaps and Chapesses.
I have been en-mired in the living hell that is having one's pad upgraded - still.
Currently running into contingency and the tiler is progressing nicely with the deco tiled bathroom. We shall see if the grout does indeed enhance things.
Despite this - it has all been terribly trying - to the extent that having a new kitchen has merely served to accentuate the hollowness of my eye-sockets, rather than being one of those gaudy colourful and fun exercises portrayed on television.
No lovely Sophie stilletoing her way around the home rubanesqueing her charms about the retention of period features.
Oh No.
Missing toilets, leaking soil pipes and a machine I have christened 'The Turbo-Rimmer'.
Anyone who has suffered the ultimate in plumbing related cloggage will have seen this device (worthy of a Gerry Anderson series on it's own) in action.

After my weekend's yachting extravaganza and blaze of glory failed to start in yet another electronic fizzle - I expected to spend my weekend glowering over my doomed lands.
The boat problem resulted in sparks not only emanating from the dodgy switch gear on the barky - but in me fulminating at the club secretary who has been secretly blocking much of the work order by yours truly, to make us ever dependant on her useless existence - and because it fits the order of a mind so far as yet unsullied by 21st century operating practices.

Shortly after hearing this - Home-ops called to say that good progress on tiling around lavatorial fittings was being made on account of the removal of said gadget. That's right - no loo other than the garden, and any attempt to use the waste disposal for a purpose in which it had most certainly not been designed was out too - blocked sink.
Saying that, sink blockage discovered after returning home - so the suggestion that I test it as thus from a scatological chum could not have even been tried.
(This chum has had similar problems with his drains, but they involved a truck with a sucky-thing, not two lads with a jet-washer and some bamboo. He should perhaps eat less fruit.)

Fortunately friends clustered round. Plied me with vino-collapso, and set me down with a decent sized hookah topped up with Virginian rub and a herbal soothing mixture.
Believe me - it soothes the aches and cares, and one no longer worries that everything you own has assumed a mantle of plaster dust.
Nights of intoxication followed as I did anything - other than return home.

One glimmer of joy is that my tiler is a gentlemen who can be generally relied upon. His dog follows him to work, and he holds progressive opinions such as 'I'm a professional pilot and run a building firm - what makes you think I would ever vote Labour'.
As he has been staying with me, I have shared the delights of my cellar- some cheeky Rhones and amusing Macons have whiled the evening hours away. He also seems to have extolled my cuisine such so that his Wife stayed last night - she taught me to fly early on - and she is delightful company.

But, one must remember - Gweilo must stand firm. At this rate he will be living in permanently, and his mother-in-law will be visiting.
And stretching out the tiling until next year.

Chop-Chop Alan!