Because I love all of you and fear for your sensibilities, I will not post pictures of our house. We're in the middle of a little construction project and starting Friday night our bedroom moved into the living room and the bathroom moved into the hall and we were either huddled around the dining room table or (until this morning) enjoying the relative order of the kitchen.
Our bedroom ceiling has been dry walled, our east facing wall completely re-plastered and a very pregnant wall in the bathroom has been cut out and replaced with dry wall. Our house is over 70 years old and has (had) the original plaster. We will now live for a week in boho squalor until the workmen return next Saturday to paint.
In all this, the kitchen was my haven. That is of course until the washer popped a valve this am and water poured out and into the kitchen. My floor is now very clean. A neighbor washed, dried and folded our laundry and through it all the sun kept shining and we kept breathing and laughing and dashing outside as often as possible to breathe fresh air. And quite frankly I kept sneaking outside and taking pictures of the garden to both distract myself from the chaos and to have something to post about. Blogging, one of my other great denial tactics.
That iris just won't quit will it?
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