Damp

The damp proofers have been and gone, but the damp is spreading again on the wall. It’s beautiful: damp, like fate. And in the other damp-proofed room, water is streaming down the wall. A shower upstairs, and so down the water comes, down the newly plastered wall. W. finds this very funny: ‘Damp follows you like a dog’.

So I stay in denial between the kitchen and the bathroom, in the only non-damp room. A bottle of Cava, half drunk. Plaster dust in my throat. Blah Feme was around the other day. ‘Well, it’s getting there.’ Getting where? The electricity failed. The drains are blocked. Dust everywhere, tiny particles. ‘I’m coughing more than ever’, I tell W.

‘Do you think of yourself as a failure?,’ W. asks, ‘you should.’