The big, brown stains bloomed on my son's ceiling while half the rain still remained in the sky. The wind wasn't much, but it was enough. Attention must be paid. The next one would rob us of our second floor.
The back of the roof, away from the street. I crouched in the somewhat complex valley betwixt the main, hip roof; a large cross-gable; and the turret. On my right was three or four layers of roof, gone to various states of reward in the roofshingle afterlife, and on my left was 1901, the first roof the place had ever had, never even attempted in the intervening century because it's deuced difficult to get to.
As I said, attention must be paid. I was a good manager in my past, better than my circumstances might indicate. No one I've met is a good manager. You must become one, as fast as you can, before the world and all its people run you over like a dog in the street. The very worst managers tell the people they manage to stand still while they figure something out. It is the mark of the bad manager breed, generally; coming soon...
I am not young any more. I have a bad back. There is a great deal wrong with my feet. I am still a bit feebler than I'd like to be from a bout of Lyme disease. All my neighbors, the nicest people I've met in this world, no exaggeration, passed by and told me to be careful up there, fearing that I might fall, never suspecting that if one of the bees buzzing around the chimney took umbrage I'd die right there without ever making it back to the top of the ladder, never mind the bottom.
I don't care. Attention must be paid. I'm alive; right here, right now. Are you? Or are you waiting for your manager to make up his mind?