Some of us work to deadlines, and some of us don't. As Julie and I, deadline people, approach another final deadline on the kitchen I wish I could be sanguine. That phrase of Peter Zumthor's, that it takes 'many many sheets of sandpaper' to get that particular finish somewhere in Switzerland rings in my ears as I lie on the bed trying to read 'The Cruel Sea' and hearing Scott rub rub rubbing away all day long. All day long, it's more like sea of sand down there, dust torture. Fucking hell, now even the doors have acquired personalities. Apparently they have either got used to the idea of hanging or have not. I mean this is a very unusual idea. But I go storming off to buy paint for an as yet non-existent door (more craftsmen). I hope just by going out it might arrive, I go to the White Horse to give it longer to arrive. Honey from Leigh on Sea seems nice, uncomplicated for sure, definitely has a nice B&Q KITCHEN and is quite happy with it but I return to inevitable disappointment, I send pleasant e-mails, I mean, I've only just RECOVERED from stomach ulcers but if anything is going to make you tumble off the waggonette it's DOING A FUCKING KITCHEN. It's clear I am temperamentally unsuited to this (by the eighth week).
Peter Zumthor's book, Thinking Architecture, is actually rather nice, appreciative of nice corners in Los Angeles restaurants if I remember, amongst other things. Well that's all fucking lovely, sitting in lovely things somewhere else or even up an Alp drinking yoghurt in Switzerland, he doesn't remember the indescribable agony of doing it, just like you don't, apparently, remember pain.