The house under water.

By day the house is all bang clatter crash and crumble. On the roof there are men. In the night it rained so much and the rain came in, drip drip drip, through the ceiling. Now the house is wrapped in blue and though it rains the water stays outside. Inside the light is dark and blue and when it rains you can hear the water dance. Even when the sun shines it feels and sounds as if the house is a drowned house from an old Welsh tale of lost villages, of drowned lands, where fish swim through blind windows and bells toll slow in the tide. The wind blows through the blue, rattling it and rolling over to make it sound like water.
By day we curl in corners, or watch from hidden places until the men are all gone. Then we spill from our hiding and prowl the underwater house. And we look forward to when the house is finished and all is peace again.

Pixie still sneezes, and all the dust thrown up by the building work does little to help her. She clings tight when you hold her, so small a cat, so lovely.