Ezoic
Mark said I should send Paul a bill for inspiring the renovation.
I told him to behave.
“Operation Silver Corsa,” Mark calls it sometimes, when something requires methodical documentation rather than direct confrontation.
“That’s a ridiculous name,” I say.
“You would have chosen something worse.”
“Probably,” I admit.
The thing I think about, when I think about that November morning, is not the recovery truck or the enforcement officer or the expression on Denise’s face when she came running out in her dressing gown. It’s the five minutes I spent the evening before, reading the council’s guidance for the second time, making sure I understood every step of what I was about to do.
Not because I was afraid of getting it wrong.
Because I wanted it to work.
I had knocked on doors and had calm conversations and been told I’d survive and watched my children start every morning in a car sitting in our own driveway, waiting. None of that had changed anything.
