Fatigue

We've been here forever and we haven't scratched the surface yet.

We have disposed of enough boxes so that we can walk around the house at least, and a few gallons of bleach later most of the things that once smelled ever so faintly of someone else's dog no longer do, at least until it gets damp again, but the ceiling fans have thus far escaped.

We are unsure quite what to do you see.   They once were white, but now they are not, like wanna be Rastafarians they hang from the centre of the living room and our bedroom, with dreadlocks of dust trailing in their wake.

If we could crochet, I'm sure they'd have little caps by now, sort of bulging beret things that would keep their hair safe, but we can't.

I think they are in for a trim tomorrow.