Not a box

This, apart from running over my toe with a shopping trolley full of beer, was the only non box related thing that happened today. A bloke arrived to quote for doing some concrete slabs in the garden, and I dallied for a while when he was measuring up to run my fingers through the lavender... (I'm sure he thought me a bit crazy, but never mind.)

Of course he says he can't start work until next year. Why can I not find a mason who is good enough to do the work but not so good that they're busy for the next six months? The only option so far are doing it ourselves or having someone not entirely kosher - I'll continue looking.

I put ALL the novels on the shelves today "surely there can't be any more..." I thought. I did worry briefly about the paucity of H through L novels (alphabetical order, of course), and particularly Hemingway or Irving, but put it out of my mind - and I had left spaces throughout for the contents of a bookcase currently hidden behind Scottish mattresses. But not enough space. Some shuffling and shifting to do tomorrow. Then there's the dividing line to draw between biography and memoir, history and biographical history and just what to do with all those interesting books that defy definition (a section called 'polymath'?)

And the living room is looking more civilised and less boxy - in time for the football. In consequence the dining room is full of boxes... More tomorrow...