It’s been wet. We should have known better than to bring Natasha in to clean the windows last Monday, ahead of our house-sitters arrival in a fortnight. Lest you think us indolent for failing to clean our own windows, you should be aware that much of the house is glazed and 
Natasha is pleased to have an additional day’s work. Not only does she have a young son to support, she also needs to save for the six-week holiday that, she tells us, she will be taking in her native Russia in the summer. 
Whatever the case, we have woken to heavy showers. The kitchen suppliers, who arrived early on Tuesday as promised, were grateful to lay out their stall in Casa Nada in the dry while my tractor stood out in the rain. The unit they were installing in the Bijou Ensuite was a display model that the firm was writing off. They were as pleased to find a buyer as we were to get a bargain. 
For the uninitiated or the forgetful, Casa Nada – the Nothing House, because it doesn’t officially exist – is an old dwelling on the property, long used as a tractor shed cum workshop. The Bijou Ensuite is the smaller half of the house, which I have generously bequeathed to Jones for her cottage development.
As we have come to learn, Carlos is a meticulous worker. Everything has to be just right, and woe betide his plump assistant, Manuel (pronounced Mun-well) for the least imper- fection. Carlos trimmed the back of the units to fit the curves of Casa Nada’s old walls before fitting the cupboards and drawers, along with a sink and a two-plate gas-hob. Throw in the existing mini-fridge and an elderly freezer and you have a spanking new kitchen.
With all of these we were well pleased. The only drawback to the whole process was the cloud of sawdust that settled over all the shelves and tools which Jones and Natasha had so painstakingly cleaned the previous week.
So on Wednesday morning, as I sat down for an English lesson with Natalia, Jones launched herself afresh into a Casa Nada spring-clean. I found the place gleaming when I joined her shortly before lunch. Not that she was entirely satisfied for, as she pointed out, some flecks needed my attention. Jones, I may tell you, has a sharper eye for unseemly motes than an eagle for a mouse. Also on Tuesday the fencers returned to continue building the fence.
They weren’t best pleased with the weather as they slopped down to the field bearing fence poles. But little as they relished getting wet, they felt it a lesser evil than missing the deadline for completion. Natalia and I could hear the cement mixer grinding away in the rain as we worked on her English pronunciation.
(She struggles with “v”s and “w”s as well as with “i”s and “o”s. Fit becomes feet and cost becomes corst.)
The day cleared up as things went along. The fencers finished cementing in the poles, ending the day much happier (and somewhat wealthier) than they started it. With luck, the fences – one around the perimeter and the other enclosing the garden - should be completed by the end of next week. It will be lovely to let the dogs run free at last.
Speaking of which, we have a notable success to report. We got the pups to the vet and back home without either of them being sick in the car. This accom- plishment we ascribe largely to their daily training outings, as insisted on by Jones. We’ve had them up to the Coral and out under the patio tables, getting them used to foreign faces and places. As they’re both verging on 17 kilos and powerful pullers, there is much to be said for such training. 
The Coral, by the way, was the venue for an estrangeiros’ English breakfast last Sunday morning. Twelve of us seated ourselves for Brigitte’s eggs, toasted ham and cheese, sausages and fruit salad – and none was disappointed. I am nearing the end of Michael Lewis’s THE BIG SHORT.
I compliment myself that I have come to understand the reason for Ben Hockett’s anguished cry as he foresaw the imminent collapse of Wall Street. “How do you explain to an innocent citizen of the free world the importance of a credit default swap on a Double-A tranche of subprime-backed collateralized debt obligation?” How indeed?
For the third time in as many weeks I have had to donate an elderly pair of trousers to the ragbag. As my wife will attest, I do not willingly part with my pants. They really have to be coming adrift, as the donated pairs were, in spite of much patching. Because my cupboard is now growing bare, I will have to invest in new garments. 
However, I am reluctant to do so until I have shed a few pounds. My formerly athletic profile has sagged somewhat and is no longer attracting the admiration it once did. Determined to beat the bulge, I have forsworn all liquor and put myself on a sensible diet. Already I can glimpse that wash board tummy.
Jones, who has seen it all before, is not entirely persuaded. Like much of spoiled humanity, the difficulty I have it not losing the pounds, but subsequently keeping them at a distance.
On Thursday, while Jones went to a ladies’ lunch, I took myself to Faro on a double mission. I was very pleased with myself for getting several shelves cut at Maxmat and acquiring a data simcard for (my brother-in-law) Llewellyn, who is due down this weekend with his wife on holiday. My only failure was to walk through a plate-glass door. I was grateful that just one small (rather puzzled) child witnessed my attempt.
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