The old office lies hidden, burried under the pile of rubble there on the right in front of the front hoe excavator (whose name I know because I have a gazillion sons).
This morning, it's just Son#3, my mother and I at home.
Son#3 is talking non-stop about Nelson, our dead cat, and my mother scampered back to the guest apartment after fixing breakfast for the boys.
She makes me coffee every morning, bless her.
The husband is grumpy and busy.
Today we're taking it slow.
Thing#1 and #2 fight and scream, overtired that they are.
They'll be home at 12.
I'm going to study, plant my salad seedlings, and fiddle on the sewing machine.
You might recall that I once mentioned that the manual clearly stated that the machine shouldn't be operated by idiots.
And how right they were.
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