Living dangerously

The Client has taken to doing nothing.

Girls are always supposed to good at being whilst we boys excel at doing, or so the builders self help guide to laying glass blocks tells me on page 44 (with a diagram).

When I say she’s doing nothing, this is a slight exaggeration as she’s actually sitting with her feet up reading a book next to our chic green garden table, which, as the only big piece of viable furniture we own, adorns the bare concrete living room. She’s been there for nearly an hour and a half and apart from an occasional trip to the window for a cigarette has apparently not changed position since I donned my blue overalls picked up my mighty trowel and sallied forth to fight the anarchy and chaos in our lives. Looking up from my tub of mortar in the garage I see regular wisps of white smoke from the living room window. Another Pope perhaps?

To be fair to The Client, the game consists of working in secret so as to annoy The Architect. As soon as my back is turned she drops the book and gets on with whatever there is to be done. The minute she hears my footsteps on the stair she drops everything and resumes her reading.

It is a well developed technique.

And it works every time.