So, after 18 months of tearing down walls of goat hair plaster have left my hair almost permanently looking like the guy from Eraserhead. Goodness knows what those goats did to have their remains scattered throughout Victorian buildings in East London but it must have been pretty disgusting.
It's one of life's small joy's to feel like blowing your nose is a really productive pastime. Honestly, after an hour of wall destruction, even whilst wearing a mask that makes me utter sounds not heard since palaeolithic times, I have inhaled more dust particles than Elton John in the 70s. The contents of my tissue are the sort of thing Jabba the Hut would produce from his arse on a really self-destructive dehydrated binge on Swedish liquorice.
Fortunately we have almost finished the destructive work; only a wall left of 1930's pink plaster that will probably make my nose look like I've snorted a bagful of powdered Percy Pigs.