They are in there. They are banging and bashing. Making such a racket on what I have left. It’s not a lot, but it is all I have left.
A man who I’ve met only once. Referred by a plumber. Without a reference and on blind faith, I’ve shown him the work needed. He seemed professional. He had a tape measure and everything. His estimate seemed resemble, but I have nothing to compare it too.
One phone call and the deal was made.
My preparation meant moving furniture into cramp spaces. No sweeping or cleaning, just giving space to a man I didn’t know to tear down the walls. I thought about moving some things upstairs, but thought better of it by the steepness of the steps and the weight of the objects, so they sit in the living room.
The rest of the material from the attic was removed, filling the trash quota for another week.
He arrived on time this morning. That’s a good sign?
And he brought a friend.
Reviewing the area to be cleared, then handing me the proposal. It matched what he had written on the back of his card and photographed with his phone during our first meeting.
I’ve been looking at these holes in the walls for months and hope that this will be the jumpstart to the next project. Additional estimates are outstanding for the trim repairs, new doors under the house, dormers patched or replaced, and a new roof, but I can be painting inside while all that is going on outside.
But what of the unknown?
Suppose they hit a wire and cut out the electricity? Or start a fire? Or knock down the ceiling fan I just had installed last week? Or they do a really crappy job and I have to hire someone else to repair the repairs?
So here I sit in Mansland, listening to strangers tearing up my house.