'What the fuck has parquet got to do with it?' Sol was waspishly querulous. Mr Tony was characteristically unimpressed.
'I can't lay the waste pipes under the boards on account of there bein' no boards to lay them under. Comprende Amigo?' He had been working on Sol's house and grounds for nearly fifteen years. Sol wasn't about to sack his handyman now, but Sol stared at him suspiciously.
'What we goin' to do then? I'm not clumping up them stairs in this fuckin' thing.' Sol gestured at the plastic boot that was holding his ligaments in place while his ancient body did its best to repair the damage. There were a couple of things he declined to share with the handyman. The first was the fact that he'd nearly fallen again a couple of times, in the four days since he had been discharged from hospital.
The second was his weak bladder that now necessitated a piss almost every hour when he was having a night-time libation - which was every night. He'd summoned Mr Tony in from the garden to demand a downstairs toilet. Mr Tony had walked around the place in his stocking feet with a tape-measure and a sceptical expression.
'Well - we could think about getting a lean-to built on the side of the house. Next to the kitchen there.' He waved vaguely towards the almost unused state-of-the-art kitchen. State of the art fifteen years ago, mind you. Sol rubbed his chin.
'How long'd it take?'
'Couple of weeks, I s'pose. Have to ring around.'
'You can fuck off with that, then.'
'How about a stairlift then? They can put them in in a couple of days. I got one put in for my aunt and....'