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Did I say seven deadlines by the end of the month?

Make that eight.

Hopefully, I can strike out two tonight, perhaps another one tomorrow. Our roofers haven’t turned up today. There’s no news, either. The verandah is stacked with pale terracotta Mangalore tiles leaning languorously into the midday sun. Five inch steel nails are strewn in a corner, next to a wooden pallet that these nimble men use as a hammer. With a child around, that’s not good news.

Our chief chef didn’t show up either. She was in a strop yesterday, with all the dust that the roofers were throwing up into the house and all over the verandah (as if intentionally). She grumbled all day, cleaned furiously (and futilely, as the leaves and roof dust came right back in) and put a plastic chair to block the bathroom door because the workers were leaving streams of black mud when they washed. This morning her daughter called to say that she had a fever and wasn’t coming to work.

So we had a quiet day, suddenly to ourselves. I treated M to pasta dipped in olive oil, feta cheese, a hint of tarragon and thyme and a teeny-weeny bit of pesto sauce when he wasn’t looking. He’s terribly suspicious of such ‘mixtures’ and after chomping down one blue bowl, he began protesting about the ‘dirt’ (the herbs) and wouldn’t eat any more except for ‘plain’ pasta without the embellishments.

As I hurtle towards my word-count, granny and grandson are racing a ‘digger’ across the dining table. Buys me two minutes more , maybe more, if I’m lucky. On the other hand, I won’t grumble too much if the ‘Mama-Mama’ song begins again. I’ve got the whole night ahead to write, no?

How’s your day going?


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