I thought it would break me. But my shell remained intact. I woke, peered out, trying to stretch fingers I can’t yet feel, puzzling as to what was going on.
Then realisation hit, the roofers were back. What they were doing dropping debris outside my bedroom window onto the scaffolding, is probably impossible to fathom.
Why, after the cleaning and painting of the exterior, should the roofers ascend to the heights, is a conundrum none answers.
Communication is limited, their language not English, my knowledge of Baltic tongues non-existent. I hoped the arrival of the amazon forewoman would produce some relief, but she has disappeared without trace, leaving mute colleagues behind.
Damage has already occurred, breakage of a window to the outside world, first covered up by darkness, and when replaced leaving an interior trail of dirt, dust and glass.
An exterior gate, off its hinges, padlocks missing, lays forlorn at the end of the patio steps. Unable to be replaced till the disassembling of the stickie-brick scaffolding. Leaving me vulnerable to attacks from below, they’ve happened before, will he ascend from his depths again?
Following foraging for food, I crawl back into my shell, warm and safe, immersed in the words. Intact until the throwers leave, when I can once again, venture into an uncertain world.