A lightening of the mood

The last forty-eight hours have been even more fraught than the rest of the trauma of having building work done.

Having launched not one, but two, intemperate rants at the builders about two different issues on Wednesday, I then spent a discomfited night wondering whether this time I had Gone Too Far. Thursday morning dawned, and there was no sign of any builders arriving for the day. Relatively early on Thursday, however, MrsBuilder emailed me back...

"I am just about to head into a meeting but as soon as I am out I shall reply to your other emails."

Which made me feel a bit better. For a couple of hours. After three hours I was a little twitchy; once six hours had passed I began to feel a trifle anxious; by bedtime I felt sick and scared by the lack of response. Had I finally managed to piss them off so much they'd given up on me? Suffice to say, I did not sleep well last night. When there was still no sign of anyone arriving on site today, my sense of doom deepened and I drove to work in tears. I finally cracked at lunchtime today, and sent a friendly message including the line,

"I'm hoping the absence of diligent all-weather builders for the past two days is because of the weather and not because you've all got the hump with me for being a stroppy cow!"

Several hours passed with no response.

I even psyched myself up to phoning MrsBuilder. No answer on her mobile or landline.

I drove home from work in tears.

I was genuinely convinced that they were downing tools and refusing to complete the job.

And then MrsBuilder emailed with comprehensive replies to all my questions, a plan to meet on Monday, details of when the carpet-man would be coming to measure up, reassurances about various issues, and the timings of when work would be starting again. And apologies because she'd had to go to an HMRC training course straight after her meeting.

A weight was lifted from my shoulders.

And once the weight was lifted, I gained some clarity on life again. I even gained enough clarity to suddenly see a way to solve the issue of The Thing That Is Built Wrong. Stress and anger and fear had stopped me seeing a solution. A deep breathe and it all seemed obvious.

More importantly, I was able to realise how lucky I am that after my last blog post multiple different friends texted and emailed me to check I was OK, to reassure me, to offer me a shoulder to cry on or a pub to meet in.

And I realised how lucky I am to have a friend how has insisted that she will babysit for LittleBear on Monday night so that BigBear and I can go out together.

And how lucky I am that my colleagues tolerate my arriving at work and ranting with the aid of diagrams on a whiteboard.

And how lucky I am that BigBear is considerably calmer than me.

And how lucky I am that for no reason other than we were all tired, and we all deserved a treat, me and my little family went to our local Indian restaurant for dinner tonight. (Yes, LittleBear only ate rice, naan and poppadom, but he loved it, and he loves coming out with us.)

And I finally dare to whisper that I am extra specially lucky that PoorPuss's world has been revolutionised by the addition of tablecloth to the floor, and for the past five days and nights, he has confined his output to his litter tray.