Once upon a time, a very long time ago, in a land before stock market crashes, flooding rain and scary heart problems, we had plans.
Not just any old ‘pie in the sky’ plans. We had real plans, big plans, plans drawn up by a qualified and expensive architect.
They were grand plans…. Plans to almost double the size of our little house. Plans for a house that had a laundry, a second bathroom, a kitchen with more than six cupboards and… scarily… a house where no more than two people had to share a bedroom.
The plans sat idle for a long time, patiently waiting for the right moment. Often what looked liked the right moment suddenly changed to the very wrong moment and the plans were carefully folded and laid back on the shelf along with my dreams.
I was patient and positive and understanding.
I was frustrated, impatient and angry.
I was resigned to the fact that I could do nothing but wait, and make the best of things.
Then, one sunny day, a big truck arrived full of concrete. All hell broke loose. There was shouting and running around and wheel barrows and buckets and spades and more running around, and more shouting.
And then all was quiet.
The truck went away.
The people went away.
I stepped outside my back door and stood carefully balanced with the baby on my hip and looked…
I looked at our plans and our dreams and our foundations, with concrete in them, and I smiled.
Let the madness begin…. finally.