The fellow next door who fell on a knife is in a state. So is half the street actually. The Kingpin Mafia Builder of the pueblo has bought the land on the corner. He has bulldozed down the protected pine trees, torn down the sides of two people's garages. Pulled down a garden wall of the knifeman next door who is very upset that his temple will be disturbed (don't ask, I don't know). His two massive Pyraneean mountain dogs are now shut into his front garden which means that Arthur is ballistic (even more so because he has a torn back muscle and not allowed to move much). Today the pneumatic drills and bulldozer are out in full force and the noise level suicidal. Half the street has gone to the local lawyer this morning fully armed with the knowledge that Franco tactics don't work in Spain much anymore. These builders are monsters...and desperate.
The renters next door sitting in clouds of dust. Everybody is a mad as hell.
Oh, and I can't get the old sofa bed out of the door. Patrick and Paco have left piles of cushions and wadding and metal bits in the sitting room. Excuse me while I go and weep.