Rolling the carpet up was not too difficult a job, but by this time my brain must have become more addled than it usually is. It was an impossible struggle to manouevre the carpet out of the bedroom door and immediately through a right-angle turn to go out of the front door. After three attempts I gave up, dropped the carpet back on the floor and stood by the window while I caught my breath. Why had I not thought of it immediately? It was a simple job to push the roll of carpet out of the window and then carry it into the so-called garage to be taken to the tip when I eventually found out if such a facility existed in France and, if so, where it was.
The plaster screed was thin, paper thin over much of the floor. Just kicking at it separated much of it from the tiles beneath and I was confident that clearing it would not present much of a challenge. I changed my mind when I realised that where the screed was a little thicker, it clung tighter to the tiles. This might not be such an easy job after all. I decided to leave it until my next visit, and wandered into the living room. Some of the wallpaper was peeling away from the wall so I gave it a little help. Very soon I was standing ankle deep in a sea of overblown yellow roses and the better part of one wall was back to bare plaster. I realised I had not thought to bring any rubbish sacks with me, so the mess would just have to wait until my next visit.
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