Right about then, the plasterer arrived. He's a nice guy. "Take your time, Danny," he says. He's Irish as in from Ireland and seems to like my brother's name--probably the only person in the whole, wide world other than mom who can still call Dan Danny. It has a nice ring when he says it, a lilt and a hollow tin can feeling sound. He's got a cup of coffee and he goes back out to his van for his next load of stuff.
Dan gets up on a stool, measuring furiously.
Down off the stool and up in the attic, measuring beams. Back up on the stool, measuring twice, this time. I hear him mutter something to the effect that it better be right this time.
I decamp up the ladder, to poke my head in the attic. Here is the bay where the other hole was, up against the beam. It's a big beam alright:
I look right, to the area where we'd sketched out our Plan B spot last night before collapsing into bed. Looks promising, I think.
A moment later, payday. We're in business.
Soon, the plasterer is hard at work and works all day. So here, without further ado, the shots of the finished work.
What a difference a day makes. Dan is happy. So am I. So is Capel.
Finally, the time seems right to bring up a square of the tile.
It suits. Relief. What a day.
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