Tradesmen

I've already mentioned the wraith from the Scotch mist, aka Mrs Stirrup/Stirrit/Spirit, who appears every couple of weeks to clean the house, and remove random items of essential equipment from our flat. Her latest move was to remove all the pint glasses from the kitchen. I've no idea what her excuse was for this, but given I don't drink beer in the house (yes, you heard right), so they've never even been removed from the drinks drawer, it would have to be something quite novel.

But there are other "below stairs" occupants as well...

Lets start with the plumber, Stuart. Stuart spends a lot of time in the house, not just because of my leaking radiator (I put it down to advancing years), but also because a new bathroom is being fitted upstairs (so I'm told, I've not actually seen it for myself). When Stuart is in the house there is a complex logistical arrangement required in terms of car/van parking, on which we consult at length, given there is only a single space available this side of the big wooden gates. The result is always the same: he has to park on the road (and pay a parking fee) in the morning, and I have to park on the road (and pay a parking fee) when we get back in the afternoon . Did I mention the draconian parking regulations in Edinburgh? And the draconian wardens? Our conversations on this topic are so regular that I'm now classified as his official Best Mate, to the extent that one day he cheerily beeped and waved to me as I was walking up the road and he was driving past.

Next comes the gardener. I've only seen him at a distance, and don't claim to be on anything like such intimate terms as with the plumber. Unlike Stuart, the gardener arrives unannounced (at least, unannounced to me), so I arrive home and open the gates to park the car only to find a big green van occupying my space. More parking fees required.

And today there was a quite bizarre sight. I wandered past the living room at about 5pm, and gazed in to see the scene captured on the right. Click, sitting there (bottom left of the photo), watching some god-awful programme* on our tiny telly, through the legs of the decorator's ladder! Just who found this most bizarre me, Click, or the decorator, we shall never know. Probably not Click though, thinking about it.

Or possibly the end of the England / France rugby match, to be fair