Ever since they bought their lovely bandbox of a house my sister has been exercised how to repair a little bit of cracked encaustic tile at the entrance.
On walks we’d stop and examine other people’s tile – a wonderful inner-city selection! – take photos, but the modern tiles are just slightly different.
So, they bit the bullet, but when the guys came to take it up, they found a deep crack, so they dug… and discovered that the vault had failed, so the surface was dangling over a sizable drop.
Lots of black humour. “Hello madam, have you heard of the book of MOOORMAAAN….” *crunch*
“We’re collecting for the Royal LIIIIFEBOOOOAAT…” *crunch*
“Oh darling, come and look at the MOOOON…” *crunch*
Obviously the only one who had been safe was Happy the cat.
Here is the delicious part:
instead of going with encaustic tile after all that agonising, they replaced the floor with period-perfect sandstone – and had the house’s crest cut into it.
Perfect. I shall never dare use the front entrance again, from sheer reverence for its beauty.