So, this was going to be a happy clappy selfcongratulatory post. I was going to glee about my desk a bit more (and I’ve managed to find the phono adaptor, so I just need to actually make the record deck work and get it a stylus), and I was going to glee a bit about the path:
I’ve also found the Mic, which means that once the record deck’s working there’s a possibility that I might, just might, do a new Dead Bug Jumping in the not so distant future.
And all that glee was shiny.
And then I lent back in my 1900s office chair. I lent back, the spring took the weight happily, and… I looked up.
We had the ceiling replaced in this room because it had water damage. Despite weeks and weeks of rain, the plaster on the old ceiling had remained dry. There was no evidence that it was still leaking, and every suggestion that it’d been repaired. I looked up at the white strip of the wall above the picture rail.
I looked up and there is a streak of dirty brown dried water-related evidence. It means getting up in the attic and grovelling around in the newly laid glass fibre. It means trying to work out where the water’s coming in. It means expense getting someone in to fix a roof*, because that is beyond my skillbase.
Arse.
* I’m presuming. But I want to know what’s wrong before some lying shite tries to tell me the whole roof needs replacing. Irritatingly it’s near enough to a valley on the roof that it might be that… feh.
