For a single strange moment, everything appears to be in hand: the garden is tidy and free of dead branches, thanks to Gardening Steve; the back door, which refused to close properly for most of the summer, has fixed itself in the cooler weather. I’ll take that as a win.
The bathtub’s clawed feet are sitting on two long planks, safely spreading its enormous load evenly across the squishy, sinking bathroom floor. There are, theoretically, further repairs to be undertaken here, but I’ve reached an age where I’ve had to make sharp adjustments to my idea of what constitutes a permanent solution. If nothing else happens, this will do.
