Life goes on, even when you have cancer

I mentioned the well-diggers; we've spent quite a bit of time over the past week with them. Things escalated, as they tend to do, starting with our getting a dripping faucet fixed and somehow ending up with a new whatsis in our well, all of the 145 feet of well piping coiled up on the ground and giving up their years of rust, and, finally, a new tank in the basement. The results have included (thank heavens) a usually silent pump and (not so thank heavens) turbid water until today. When I turn on the water I have a flashback to an inn I stayed at once in the hills outside of Nairobi, where a servant in impeccable white uniform brought my tea in the morning, greeted me in perfect British English as I hid under the bedclothes , and then ran a bath for me. The bathwater was the same color as the tea.
In any case, we have now done our bit for the sagging economy, at least that part of it connected with plumbers and Cushing and Sons.
Then last night we heard munching and skittering in the attic. I swear we also heard some in the closet, but Jerry doesn't believe me. Apparently, some of God's Little Creatures decided that instead of going out into the springtime to do their thing they'd come into the house. Make that God's Confused Little Creatures.
I swore. The cats were delighted. Jerry, more practically, insisted that we take sleeping pills and turned the fan on for white noise. We made it through the night, but he's now out buying a trap which he plans to take up the ladder outside the house and somehow get into the attic. I'm not sure what happens next, and I'm not sure I want to know.
But all of this does make for distractions from what's been the kind of week where I've felt as though I might be coming down with the flu but haven't quite managed it. There are ups and downs -- ups including a knitting get-together and a trip out for pizza, downs including a lot of lying on the couch.