Another day listening to Graham up in the lofts, laying insulation roll by roll, side by side, moving from the front of the house towards the back. The whole of the ‘ground floor’ is done now, leaving only two sides of the ‘upper floor’ to be done. In terms of area, very little. In terms of difficulty, a gruesome task, working in very cramped conditions.
An American architect friend of Graham’s on an online group recommended he partition off those sections and then call in a ‘specialist’ to ‘blow’ the voids full with insulation. Graham, who’d researched this as an option, pointed out that this would effectively seal the roof timbers in an unventilated and potentially damp environment, perfect for generating rot. He’s not heard anything on the subject since. Or any other, seemingly.
Already the warmth has crept into the inner leaf of the masonry walls, creating a heat-bank that generates a steady-state warmth and humidity in the house, making my joints feel they’ve gorn orf on holiday. Wonderful.
For a blessed ten or fifteen minutes around noon the sun came out and filled the house with blazing yellow-white light. We were sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea during one of Graham’s infrequent rests.
“Oh, glory be,” I said.
“Oh, what a poifec’ day,” Graham sang.
“They did a song about that, I think.”
“Of course they did, you silly old sausage.”
“Less of the sausage, if you don’t mind.”
