I still owe him money for thateven now!
I suppose you could call me a dab hand at renovations. Its been my bread and butter for years now, and Ive turned it into a rather lucrative business, if I say so myself. From time to time, my family ring me up when they need a wall patched or a kitchen freshened up. So, one afternoon, the phone rings, and its my cousin, Arthur. “Thought Id give you a bell to see if you can lend a hand,” he says.
A couple of days later, Im sorting out my diary and hes asking, You free to come for a bit? Of course, I never turn down family if I can help it. By the time I arrive, all the materials have been bought, delivered, and are waiting in the hallway. As soon as I cross the threshold, Im swept up into the buzz of it all. Theres something deeply satisfying about the workalways puts a spring in my step.
Taking money from family rubs me the wrong way. Even when my brother, Henry, offered, I waved it off. After a fortnight of knocking walls about and painting skirting boards, his flat barely looked the sameyoud hardly recognise it! All that was left was a half-done corridor and a mountain of odds and endstiles, laminate, some old tins of paintpiled up by the front door waiting for a tip run. Thats when Henry blinked and got this look in his eye.
You know, you could probably use that lot, he mused. Just chuck them in your shed for nowmight be handy for your next project, or for your clients. Save yourself a few quid. So, I shrugged and carted the remnants off: tiles, laminate panels, paintno bother, plenty of room in my shed, and who knows what might come of them?
Later, I decided to chat with Henry about it, and thank heavens Id had my phone nearby to record the conversation, just for good measure. What he said really caught me off guardright to my face, with not a hint of a wink. Id show you the clip, if dreams had videos.
Doing up homes has always been something I love. I thanked Henry for his generosity, and we both agreed to leave it at that. By evening, the job was done; Id ferried the leftovers offsome to the skip, some to my shed. We spent a little time over a cup of tea, toasted the new look of the flat, and then I made my way home through the misty streets.
The next day rolled round as normal, until, at two oclock, my phone rang again. Henry, a strange edge in his voice: Alright, I reckon you owe me for those building materials. Theyre worth a pretty penny, you knowsolid timber, beautiful laminate. The tiles are good as new, you could flog them. Can you send it over to my bank card?
To say I was gobsmacked would be putting it mildly. Hed promised to ring again about the work later, but after all was said and done, he never did. I truly was left reeling.
Now I dont know what Im meant to say to him, how Im supposed to talk. After all, Id put in the graft for free. The leftovers? Well, nobody would have paid a farthing for themhe planned to bin them himself, and then, suddenly, gifted them to me. Should I be charging him for the work I did? Im still wondering, wandering through this fog of confusion, as the dream unfolds into ever stranger shapes.
