Menolyrical; Final Friday Fiction

...or not. The following is a tale of woe in which little is fiction. More is the pity... (*it's pronounced 'chayHurun' = changeling, not quite human...)

This is the tale of the *tácharan who, on Wednesday morning, was happily tapping away on her typotechnographical as she sat upon her toadstool when her awareness was cut by a curious sound. A kinda ripping sound, quickly followed by a tearing sound and almost immediately thereafter, a tumbling, terrifying sound. This, in turn, was followed by a little waterfall sound as the air suddenly took on an odour of dust and age. Much like the dust and age as might be found in an Egyptian tomb. She imagined.

The tácharan put away the tapping board and slid off her toadstool to peer through the door into the hallway. There she was met with a thicker cloud of the dusty air and a deeper odour of... oldness.

She knew in her heart what it might be. It had happened before. It wasn't in the same place though. No. This was another room. At a spot where she had been standing but half an hour before. What was it then, that had happened? Let these pictures do the telling of the tale.

The tácharan, who had been trying to tidy around the kitchen in recent times, now was faced with starting again. Well, perhaps not that. Tragic as this tumbling topside was, it presented her with an opportunity, to be sure. A chance, nay, an imperative to get stuck in good and proper. Time required, though. From the fall at the eleventh on the clock to the absorption of the scene was some forty-five minutes. The tácharan needed to have a wee sit doon to think a little about what had occurred. Layers of hundred-year-old cemented plaster crumbled to dust finer than lunar powder were deeply, deeply unpleasant, not to mention unhealthy. She decided to phone a friend. Not for advice, but for distraction and to allow the shock time to settle.

The friend was happy to prattle away until the tácharan announced the need to end the call for clean up to commence. She wandered through to the kitchen and gazed upon the devastation once more then, crunching across the detritus, got round to the kettle to make a cup of restorative tea. And reach the chocolate biscuits. Then began to gather the larger components into bags. Three bags in she needed another wee sit doon. Her mind had been thinking on about how to rearrange things as everything - EVERYTHING - had to be moved around now anyway. 

Back on her toadstool tapping away at the typotechnographical, the tácharan researched different shelving/storage setups and placed an order. Also for a new rubbish bin, since the lid of the existing one was a casualty of the tumbling. After another hour, there was no avoiding going back and doing some more cleanup. Two more bags of the mess were gathered. Sweeping began. Just the first sweeping. More would be needed. Then it was time for tea and food.

The counter surfaces and stove were given their first run of cleaning and the window sill, too. Then it came to a point where ladders would have to be used. That was when the tácharan decided that was enough for that day. The rest would be sorted on Thursday and some of the sortings depended on the shelving things arriving. 

Her back ached, her skin itched, her fingers wrinkled... a long hot shower and she slept well that night. 

On Thursday, the tácharan dragged herself through to face some more of the cleanup.  There were still lumps of plaster on top of the upper cupboards and the inside of those cupboards had dust and grit in them, as well as the cooker hood. Ladders were raised, boiling water employed, a no small amount of cleaning fluid and elbow grease.

That dust, that grit... she could feel that the counter surface was going to take several days of wipings to feel like it is clean again. The shelving arrived late in the day but it was exciting for the tácharan. She ripped the packs open and raised the wire legs and cooed loudly with cheer at her purchase. These were just the job! The moon was rising, the dark had dropped it was mealtime again. At least the main work-space corner was as ship-shape as it could be - for now.

Turning her back on the opposite counter and the bags of tumblings, the tácharan called a halt to the spring clean. Tomorrow would come soon enough and the chance to get the next stage done...