Isn’t it depressing when, trying to clean the house, your children manage to mess up where you’ve been by the time you get to the other end of the room.
In the same way I feel for the workmen resurfacing a road in our village. As it goes down the tarmac is black and glossy, the surface pristine. By the time they’ve altered the contra-flow and let us all back on, it’s marred by dust and encrusted with horse poo.
How disheartening for the men to end the week with an already imperfect road.
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