Yes, Acme, a deadline concentrates the mind mightily. I have disliked the state of the kitchen for at least five years, but only the imminent sale of the house could force me to pull my finger out and get the work done.

Our destination is Stratford, Ontario, the seat of Perth County and home of the Stratford Theatre Festival. It's a nice little town of just over 30,000 population, just close enough to Toronto to allow weekend jaunts for shopping and shows, but far enough away that house prices are still almost sane. It's also within easy visiting distance of Himself's extended family, which comprises what feels like dozens of nieces and nephews and great-nieces and great-nephews, all spread out along the 401 highway from Toronto to Windsor.

The kitchen is back to rights, after some two hours of trotting back and forth with trays of glassware and armloads of cooking tackle. I also improved the last hour of daylight yesterday by scrubbing the floor, my second-least-favourite job (after cleaning the oven). Himself came home from work just as I was hauling in the last of the wine glasses (yes, we have too many), and all I had to say to him was, "Pizza for supper. And beer."

The huge mirror in the front hall -- seven feet tall, Victorian plate glass and mahogany, probably once the property of a Montreal haberdasher -- has been taken down from its bracket and propped up against a bookcase full of British Empire history. Fresh plaster has been applied to the jeezly great holes in the wall where its enormous anchor bolts were sunk into the studs, and the carpenters are due around lunch time to sand, patch again, sand some more, and patch yet again. The real estate agent wanted it dismounted and squirrelled away before any potential buyer saw it and assumed it came with the house, but now I'll actually have to pay attention to ensure that I don't button my coat skew-whiff.