Painter last week.

Grrr...Painters!  Last week a new painter arrived.  Smiling and seemingly more competent than the diffident smoking threesome who first came seven weeks ago.   A colleague joined him who told us the paint was bad.  Whatever, the addition wall is streaky with last week's coat of paint.  The same area where the door's hinges are needs painting.  I've pointed it out several times for weeks to anyone from the building company who seemed to be listening.   Nobody was.  Or rather, they finally did this past week, but first did only half, made a botch of it, then repainted it sloppily.  Is symbolic of the whole painting process which started in mid September.  

It has become increasingly intolerable looking from the outside through scaffolding bars.  Feels like we're in jail.  Or worse.

Looking west early morning from my office through the scaffolding bars.  The long roof  extending from the left of the picture belongs to a 17th century farmhouse, one of the oldest houses in our "village".  You can see on the white house in the foreground the shadow of the scaffolding. 

I told our building company last Friday,  I just want the scaffolding, which has been up for weeks, DOWN even though there are still many mistakes to correct.  I am beginning to feel it's my death shroud, that I'm buried alive with all my worldly goods in my sarcophagus  house.  Maybe those Ancients were on to something - why bother to sort out belongings of the dead? Just pack it all up in a house for the life beyond with food for the journey along with the corpse.  Maybe that has been the problem all along. I've been having a life after death experience and didn't know it.

 Scaffolding was used also for the execution of criminals.  What a sinister word.

When we are free from our scaffolding prison, we shall sing and dance with our new lease on life.