When doing nothing is called deliberation...

When you are not retired, retirement hovers over the horizon like an enticing option. "Come and get me", it says. Or "Jump in the water's lovely.."
Well, let me tell you this: it's not that straight forward, right? It takes a bit of getting used to.

I know the enforced bunion recuperation was supposed to limber me up, so to speak, but it was more like a state of limbo (not to be confused with the waterproof item described 21/1/16 ) before the very soft reality of unstructured days hit me like, not like a wet blanket, but a Hungarian down duvet. Enveloping me and stultifying my strength.
I confess, I have been struggling to surface in the mornings to fly the flag as Dearest still continues to march on a much longer treadmill than the one I once walked.

So I have had to haul myself up by my oxters (Scottish arm pits) and apply myself.

We have two bathrooms: one upstairs and one down. Both are in need of renovation. Not merely requiring a lick of Dulux, but in serious need of attention. So I have undertaken a crash course in plumbing. There, you weren't expecting that.
Of course, I haven't, but I have looked at an awful lot of catalogues, gone glassy-eyed studying photographs on Houzz and now my mind is awash (naturally, given subject-matter) with ideas about what we could or should do.
Our plumber, a champion chap, who installed our central heating four years ago, came and talked turkey for about two hours. I sent him an email of what we'd discussed to help him with his paperwork then I hear absolutely nothing...
This could aggravate most mortals, but you are talking to Queen of Patience here.
It also means that the the past two weeks have enabled me to run at least three different permutations by Dearest (who I should say definitely wants two working bathrooms but probably would like to be the invisible star of Changing Rooms whereby he comes home from a weekend away to find the whole bloomin' job done and dusted. It must be the thought of television exposure,  holding him back..)

I had yet another idea this morning. I thought I'd get in quick while the endorphins were still surging (his not mine, after his new jog-before-work-regime).
He quite liked my idea which was much cheaper than the previous idea.
However, later this morning I've had another quite controversial one, which means swapping the roll top bath upstairs with a shower downstairs. (It doesn't take much guessing as to who has a preference for candle-lit baths over he-man showers...)

The only thing I would really miss on a weekly basis, is the sight of his barely covered-bottom beating a hasty retreat  up the stairs as Ewelina arrives brandishing a bog brush and a bottle of bleach.
So let's say I'm still deliberating...

Upstairs or downstairs?