sunday work.

There is the old car belonging to the son in the corridor, it had decayed for a long time, the body is rusty. The son wishes to restore it, but there will be work to do just to strip it down so that the metal structure can be brushed free of rust, a dirty and dusty job.
To prevent the dirt spreading all over the house, there is a plastic curtain to be put up across the passage, a wire to be stretched across the cieling.

The son helps, though he has few ideas as to how it is to be done, he has few ideas about helping. He gathers the scattered tools from his last attempts to take off one of the front mud guards. Tell him to put the tools away neatly. The curtain is soon up, and it blocks off the end of the corridor. Clear away the ladder, clear away the tools.

The son is starting to feel the cold, but ask him for his help with one more thing. There is metal shelving, still in it's plastic packaging, waiting to be assembled. When the plastic has been removed from the shelving, there is a large heap of sharp cornered steel sheeting pressed into struts and shelves on the floor. There is also a skimpy instruction leaflet with ambiguous drawings.
The shelves require no fasteners, they are just assembled by pushing the parts into each other.
The shelves are assembled quickly, and the son sweeps the floor.
He is complaining clearly of the cold now.
So that is that.
Stop the sunday work.