Okay, so there’s clearly a problem when the damp in your bathroom wall starts blistering and crumbling the plaster and paint right off. You call in people to find the source of the trouble, and then pay them to fix it.
Our old standbys, Andre and Coralee-Ann, came to the rescue. The shower floor had a crack in it plus the sealer round the edges had worn off – basically, every time I showered, I was causing more water to be sucked up into the wall. The solution was to rebuild the shower floor, and scrape down, replaster, re-tile and repaint the walls.
The work was finished yesterday, but not before I had woken up the night before to use the bathroom, didn’t bother to switch the light on, staggered around in the dark on my way back to bed trying to avoid the linen basket and the towel box and other things that had been temporarily moved, misjudged where the bed ended and so threw myself like a sack of butternuts into the narrow space between the bed and the displaced bathroom stuff. I cracked both knees, one arm and my head in the fall. It was a very rude shock to my system, especially at 2.30am. When I realised I hadn’t actually broken anything, I heaved myself up and into the bed proper. I lay there cosily thinking how lucky I was to have gotten away with just some bruises and that now would be a good time to embrace sleep again, when one of the cats lurched in and proceeded to vomit copiously all over the carpet. A metre away from me. Twice.
I guess not every night is bound to be peaceful and restorative…