16 November

Oh, woops. Maybe because of all the banging and hammering, or maybe not and it’s just one of those things, but the front door to the flat I am living in – the one that is not mine – has become almost impossible to open, from the inside or the outside. If you’re outside it you have lean with all your weight to get the key to turn. If you’re inside you have to hold onto the latch and lean back with all your weight (or mine, at least) to open it. Emergency call put in to builders, who are otherwise not here because we are still waiting on the structural engineer to provide his specifications.

So this morning, Bartek (he of the injured elbow because of football) and Sebastian (he of the few words) have shown up and are making a spectacular noise downstairs. I go to investigate and find them doing unspeakable things to the wrong door…the one to my real flat, which opens and closes without demur. I explain and then, after an hour and half of repositioning hinges, locks, planing the top of the door and all manner of other operations, the door to the top flat opens somewhat better than it did. Let’s see what happens later in the day now that they have all gone again.

Later: another structural engineer has arrived: young (by my standards), a bearded, dark-haired Italian in a black jacket with elegant toggles, black trousers, black suede shoes – arguably not the best gear for traipsing around the dust pit that is my flat. He has taken lots of photos and we have discussed every corner and elevation, and he is a good deal more nervous than I am about the absence of a solid floor on the upper level and the unevenness of everything else at the lower one. But I have hopes that he will make his recommendations swiftly so that the Poles can r