contracted
We slept in the living room due to a wall in the bedroom having been covered with spots of mould behind a bookcase. We cleaned the wall, the smell of chlorine persisted through a few rounds of airing out.
The carpenters called with news of the—hopefully—right replacement part having arrived and they'll rock up next week to finish the deed; which we told them we'll hold off any celebration for until the window is actually repaired.
Anecdotally, Baseball practice was a showcase in pandemonium, which ended with the team not getting celebratory sweets at the end. Kirby didn't want to talk about it.
Grant Morrison turns 66 this year. They're a year younger than my Father, which made me pause and consider the parallel universe, where my Dad wrote something like The Invisibles1 or started out doing a comic strip for the local newspaper—which had syndicated strips from all over the world, but never one from an austrian artists, from what i know. And now i have a »recording« of that version of my Dad telling me about his time in Katmandu in my head…
Work was stressful. The production was run through … a network of shell companies it seems, and therefore, the information flow wasn't as smooth as every contractor was used to. Three hours into assembly, a group meeting on stage was called, to hand out the actual plans. In the end, not even those versions were right, and i spent the day building and removing and improvising infrastructure. One of the lighting guys went into a racist rant about the production company, until a carpenter asked him about the name of the person he signed the contract with and what the company name was again. After he got his answers, the carpenter told him »Doesn't sound local; if you don't want to work for such people, don't sign the contract.«
The Invisibles // wikipedia.org↩