Catering is getting a bit sneaky in his old age, and I’m not sure I like it. Towards the end of Lockdown 2.0 I had to pop into the office to sign some thank you letters. I said I’d be home by about 10.30am but, due to the lack of traffic on the road, I arrived home half an hour early and caught Catering in the dining room with the Trevor, the kitchen designer. Apparently the house renovations we have been discussing in roundabout terms for the past 6 months, are going ahead in the spring. I had, by returning early, apparently ruined my Christmas surprise. The next thing I know, while discussing getting the Christmas decorations down from the loft, Catering announces that we need to empty the loft anyway as Malcolm, the electrician, is coming to put new lights in the ceiling of his office. Whatever next? Secret gambling accounts perhaps? Swiss bank accounts?

The emptying of the loft would not normally be an issue, as Catering and the boys are usually in charge of that. When living with 3 men, all over 6 foot tall, why struggle with the contents of the loft yourself. Unfortunately 2 of the 3 above mentioned men are currently living elsewhere and so needs must and I must get involved. Actually, despite my misgivings, it went remarkably smoothly, with only a couple of bruises and a slightly fat lip from a tricksy box that got away from me. We discovered much we had forgotten we had and I revisited Catering’s inherited capacity to hoard paperwork. However within a couple of days he had been persuaded to work through several large boxes and, thanks to our new neighbour’s builders’ bonfire, a lot of stuff had gone up in flames.

The lights were duly installed and then we needed to put the contents back in the loft. The only way this could be achieved was if I headed into the loft and Catering lifted the boxes up to me, while I pulled them up and stacked them. Mission accomplished, and a very tidy loft to boot.