There were still great drifts of cement dust mixing with the snow outside, but Martien and I, your humble narrator, stood in the new Bombastophonic arena and marvelled.
The windows and doors had arrived, and ‘George’ and his men had done a spectacular job of installation. The dour south wall had been replaced with three fine support pillars and four expanses of almond wood framing glass. So had part of the western wall.
Behind us, muffled by brickwork so new that the mortar was still wet, the compressor was resuming its task of stuffing the air tank. The new ‘plant room’ had additionally been walled off, leaving a small chamber for what Martien grandiosely dubbed Coinpurse Hunt HQ.
“They’ve still to dismantle the yard wall of course,” he noted, “And I need to oil the hinges on these doors… say, do you think some permanently closed ones on the north wall would be wise?”
This one said nothing, but instead opened a protesting partition and walked around to the side. Northward there was naught but a drop. All I could do was walk back in and report, “This one suspects potential mistakes and injuries.”
So Martien chewed his moustache in a pensive and picturesque fashion, before the door opened and Miss Flood entered in a most festive and even more scandalous dress.
“It’s almost all done!” she exclaimed, gazing out to sea. She bounced on her toes a bit, causing her dress to lift in a way that this one found delightful and Martien refused to acknowledge was doing him a power of good.
“There’s still some demolition and sweeping up to do,” Martien grunted sourly, “not to mention breaking everything out of storage.”
“It doesn’t matter,” our dear lapine DJ declared, “It’s almost all done! How soon will the machine be ready?”
Martien just scowled at her – evidently her dress was too short for his taste – and went to check the gauges. He came back and reported, “maybe tomorrow.”
This news made Miss Flood jump up and down in excitement. That sight did me, it has to be said, a power of good.