Elvis is in the building

I thought my house had been robbed on Friday morning.

When I got home after walking the dogs, the side gate was wide open and the lock was busted.

I put a stack of outdoor chairs against the gate to keep it shut and went inside to check on everything. Then I heard a commotion and discovered three builders trying to batter their way back in.

Mystery solved.

The head builder had suggested he might start work on Friday, but he’d been teasing arrival dates for weeks, so I hadn’t paid much attention.

The trio got cracking for a few hours, then popped off for some yum cha … not what I was expecting builders to eat on their lunch break … and I snapped this pic of their progress:

Only two builders came back after lunch. One was called Elvis, but his mouth was pure Samuel L. Jackson. I have never heard the “F” word yelled so many times in one afternoon.The swearing escalated when Elvis couldn’t get the electric level laser thingy to work. Blimey I bet my neighbours with two small children under the age of five were impressed.

By the end of Friday afternoon I had the full frame of a back deck in place. Woo-hoo!

Next step is to raise the laundry to the same level as the french doors and add an internal door.

Elvis has promised to return today to get cracking on laying the decking boards. Fingers crossed.

In other weekend news, on Saturday I walked the dogs, then the 8km circumference of Narrabeen Lake with two friends, then a bush track in Middle Cove walk with another friend. On Sunday I walked with the dogs, then my friend Alice, then my sister.

My legs were close to not working properly by halfway through the walk with my sister.

Blimey I was exhausted. But I was also saving lives. See below for explanation:

By mid-afternoon on Sunday my entire body was aching, not helped clambering over the rafters every time I needed to carry a dog to and from the backyard to the house for a wee (because they are scared of the rafters) and to put final loads of washing on before my laundry goes out of action.

So I poured myself a hot bath, which felt great until I started scrolling through Facebook and came across a post about Nicole Kidman making a movie adaption of a Liane Moriarty book.

The overworked, underpaid social media editor who’d written the bit above the post had made a typo and accidentally called her “Laine”. A commenter with too much time on their hands had whinged about it being an indication of how poorly regarded authors are compared to actors.

I don’t normally have too much time on my hands, but I was in the bath and I couldn’t help responding. I knew I was showing bad judgement as I pressed “send”, as nothing good comes of Facebook arguments. But FFS, get a grip. It wasn’t a slight against authors, it was just a mistake by a journalist in an understaffed newsroom. I’ll bet if I had access to the whingeing commenter’s Facebook account I’d discover she makes plenty of mistakes.

Anyways, I simply noted that it was a mistake and suggested the commenter might also made them ocasionally. What I wanted to say was “how about you direct your anger towards something that actually MATTERS?”

But I restrained myself. Naturally, she replied to my comment, but I couldn’t  bring myself to read it. I think it’s best that I move on, so I deleted her notification, which no doubt contained a vicious assessment of my character.

When it comes to the small stuff, I think we all need to calm the F down on social media.

Hello Monday, thanks for waking me at 4.45am. What fresh dramas do you have in store for me this week?

Stay tuned …

Song of the day: Split Enz “That was my mistake”

 

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