analog fanatic.

The telephone rings, it is nine in the morning. The owner of the house next door is on the telephone, he is announcing his arrival in an hour's time.
Ok, that is good.
Take up the 'phone and press the buttons for the number of the man at the bank.
Say hello, hope that all is in order.
Much polite blather,
then make an appointment for the coming week.
The son is wandering about, wondering what is going on, and talking about the latest pet project. He should be at school, but he is not. It is because the school is closed, due to the virus. The virus lurking in a cranny somewhere, or maybe in a nook.
Start to tidy up the kitchen, sort all the carelessly left things back into their corners, wipe the table top of crumbs and sweep the floor with the brush, then gather it all into the dustpan and throw it into the bin.

At ten, go out of the front door, there is the owner of the house next door. He is waiting too, waiting for the building workers, his workers who are going to repair the wall, repair the roof, they are the ones who need access.

The building workers arrive, there are scaffolding specialists who come on foot, and the bricklayer who wants to repair the subsiding house by filling the cracks.
They talk, they measure.
They make an appointment.
And then they leave.

The neighbour is an amateur photographer.
He wants to talk shop.

He is right in everything he says.
He knows so much.

He is an analog fanatic, a silver freak.