Bank Holiday Weekend

It's a Bank Holiday weekend, for sure.

1. The temperature has dropped from 'unseasonably hot and fine for beach' to 'brrr, put the heating on'

2. this was the only possible weekend for the maintenance people to come and paint the exterior of the building -- or, as it turned out, to come and look at it, suck air through their teeth and say things like 'sit out here often do you? 'cause that bit of roof's going to fall down any minute' and 'we'll just brace this bit here with a big, rusty, greasy bit of metal so it doesn't crush you to death'.
Oh, I'm glad I'm only renting ...
They did do some painting, slowly and noisily.

3. I feel grotty (nausea / headache / fatigue) in a way that suggests:
a) I should never eat fish and chips on the beach ever again, which is manifestly Not Fair; or
b) I should not have a glass of darkish pink drink just before bed after a long day out, which is manifestly Not Fair, or
c) I should not go to Brighton to hear Simon Armitage and Robert Macfarlane talk about Gawain and the Green Knight and the joy of wilderness, which is manifestly Not Fair, or
d) I should not make plans for a creative and sociable Bank Holiday weekend, or
e) all of the above.

Going back to bed now. At least the painters are no longer laughing at the brickwork outside my bedroom window.