Day Five, and Mark is downstairs again, finishing off the kitchen. He laid most of the kitchen and hall floor yesterday, and I have to say it looks pretty good. Today he’s doing the edges, then the bit under the stairs; after which, he’ll start on the study. He assures me he will definitely finish on Monday. We’ve established he’s a QPR supporter who used to live in Acton, where I worked between 1969 and 1972 on the Acton Gazette.
The whole floor process is painstaking. After laying marine ply with great precision, he covered the floor with some wet sticky stuff which had to be left to dry, then planed down to be even flatter than it looked already. Then a section of the floor was glued, and the strips of Spacia laid – again very, very precisely, starting with a long strip down the centre.
Yesterday I visited the surgery to get a blood pressure monitor attached to me by Mrs Minter (making it a Minter monitor). She said her parents knew the people who built our house before emigrating to Australia. Apparently their name was Nash. Doesn’t ring a bell, but the facts fitted. The blood pressure monitor is an extremely irritating device which reminds me of what mobile phones used to look like (and weigh like) before they became usable. Every half hour it beeps and then compresses my arm to get a reading. Frequently it doesn’t work, so it repeats the process. At night it doesn’t beep but does do the rest every two hours. I wasn’t aware of the compression, but it must have woken me around 6am, and I didn’t get back to sleep after that. Pretty annoying, and it’s also uncomfortable and makes doing certain things difficult. I estimate it’s put my blood pressure up about 30% which, considering I was told it was very high when Mrs Minter took it at the surgery, has probably resulted in an increase of about 40% over the last 24 hours. I reckon the only way you can get an accurate blood pressure reading is to take it without the victim knowing. I’m doomed.
Amid all the beeping and compressing I went to the inaugural meeting of the St Augustine’s Poetry Group last night, while Dot attended Developing Consciousness, which I guess is roughly the same thing without the rhythm. There were three of us at the poetry group: Stuart (whose baby it is), Nic Golding and myself. Surprisingly, it went quite well. Stuart and I read a few poems; Nic hadn’t brought any because of “printer problems”. We’re meeting again next month.