It's been a while.
I'm sat in the garden (my garden!) and inside the house a however-many foot long steel pipe is being removed, bit by heavy bit, and a slightly wider (more expensive) pipe is being installed so that tomorrow I may, just may, have a wood burning stove. And the last time I went inside there was a thin layer of dirty black soot over ever surface and I'm expecting it to be slightly thicker the next time I check.
So the dust hasn't gone just quite yet. But it's all good really.
The garden is full of plants. Geraniums and poppys and hydrangeas and forget-me-nots and pansies. All the kind of things that survive the slow neglect of a few years in the garden of an empty house. All the tiny flowerbeds and pathways and stones overgrown with dandelions and violets and unidentified orange flowers. Bricks and concrete. Sycamore trees.
I met the man who found the old lady when she died in this house. I hope she'd like us.