Get the buckets ready.
10:55 a.m.
Our roof needs to be replaced. When the house was constructed 19 years ago, the builder promised us that our roof would last for 15-20 years. Well, maybe 20 years in a more hospitable clime. I think it’s done pretty well considering our brutal winters and the fact that we usually get lots of sunshine during the summer. But now the shingles are curling up, shredding, and blowing off. Hubby and I decided it was time to get it redone, and so he called around and got estimates. We looked at different options, including metal, which would be very cool and last a long time, but then decided finally on 30-year “organic” shingles in a colour similar to the one we already have. We probably won’t be living here in 30 years, and who knows how much longer the PVC siding, mimicking white clapboard, is going to last (I know it has a half-life of 400 years, but it tends to start looking really bad a long time before that), so we thought that that was enough of an investment.
The roofer called on Sunday night saying he would be here at 7:00 a.m. the next day. He was not. He telephoned yesterday and I asked him pointedly if he’d broken a leg because I was concerned. He informed me that he was well, but that they need two sunny days (at least without rain) to get the job done, and they hadn’t had it. So he assured me he would be here today. So far, he is not. When we heard a large vehicle coming up the street earlier, Hubby and I both leapt up and ran to the window. Alas, it was something else. Next week is the two-week construction holiday. I complained to him that they’ll never come at this rate.
I just hope, with all the rain we’re having, that the roof doesn’t start leaking now. That would truly be adding injury to insult.
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