cake on sunday

A cake and three cups and saucers, the table set by the son for Sunday breakfast.
The wife is up now, and the son has used the giant Italian Espresso maker to make coffee for all.
He sees that one cup does not have a matching saucer, he rushes to the kitchen, to get a suitable saucer. In certain things perfection is important to him. In others, not so much.
After consuming two pieces of cake and two cups of coffee, and talked, about the new car, and about computers.
Not about the sun, outside, blazing out of a clear sky.

Go upstairs, to finish the work on the old oak door. The work is to remove the paint, using a hot air blower, built much like a hair dryer, but a lot hotter. Watch the paint blister under the onslaught, the scrape it away with a scraper, do it again and again.
Two hours, other people are in church.
All the windows are open, so that the smell of hot paint can escape.
Three hours later, the heavy coats of paint are gone, they are all on the floor.
Shrivelled scrapings, clumps of paint, a smell of linseed.
Take up the door, and hang it in its frame.
It looks awful.
It is not sanded yet.

That is work for tomorrow, for the sander is noisy
and Sunday is a day of rest.