The sky is falling. Actually, the sky, gray and misty, is in its proper place. But the paint on the downstairs hall ceiling is falling down in large chunks--the last fallout, literally, of our roof follies. Nothing structural, but it's daunting when you go downstairs to get the paper and find a foot-square piece of paint has chipped off and shattered on the floor.
And Spouse has become preoccupied with the health of the foundation. Joy.