So it appears we’ve finally finished painting the Forth Bridge, which should free up the contractors to start on the other three*. And when they’ve finished those, I’ve a proper job waiting that’ll offer a job for life. No fancy paint technology is going to save us here.
On being asked “when will your house be finished?”, I wearily respond with “a) the day I die b) the day I file for bankruptcy or c) “What d’ya mean finished? Fridge works and rain’s not coming through every ceiling. It’s not a bloody hotel you know”
Progress of a sort barrelled in through the medium of Martin our Polish builder. A man who converts”Health and Safety” into his mother tongue and finds no direct translation. He’s the master of disc-cutter juggling, and the beer crate scaffold. Still he’s not a particularly young fella yet lacks no obvious limbs or appendages, and for as long as he is topped up with sweet coffee and cash envelopes, the man is a machine.
He needed to be after we were caught by surprise with the windows only turning up one week late. This is an 11 week improvement on the first drop where clearly we were waiting for a sapling to sprout into a mighty oak. The boys from the rather splendid sawmill/workshop nestling on the Welsh boarder are also sustained on sweet hot beverages and rollups. While Martin chopped out old windows and big fuck-off holes in the wall, they sallied forth with chunky frames representing a cost associated with a rather nice holiday we didn’t have.
Finishing way after dark without complaint, but furnished with a couple of beers and a few more funded by my withdrawal from the bank of Carol, we have a ground floor resplendent of windows that let in only light, not wind and rain. This is in direct contrast to the tiny shitty, blown, brown-stained apertures clearly robbed off a third class cruise-ship cabin.
It’s fun watching the dog perform a “Tom and Jerry” nose slide on the glass after his retrieve genes are fired by something moving in the garden. I guess he’ll learn eventually although I keep opening the door just to confuse the poor mutt a bit more. Said it before, man’s got to have a hobby.
Of which DIY isn’t mine. Powertools however, even in the pursuit of a less than manly end product, are my metier. Or downfall. Or item named on A&E form. Carol is either making planters or a sea going wooden fleet to rival the Vikings. I’ve certainly felt more than little berserk when a vigorous sawing session ended in the blade being nicely arrested by me leg. Apparently these shrubbery coffins** will contain organic stuff that’ll be set off nicely by the new patio.
New patio? The bike fund is looking a bit bloody threadbare I can tell you. Still after deep pre-breakfast Malverns Incursion followed by a lap of the FoD Blue with Jess this afternoon, I find myself – peculiarly – more about riding than buying. And I’d best do some more because Jess is getting parentally-worryingly quick. She even crashes better than me – a little over-exuberance on the final berm saw bike and smallish person locked in a rolling embrace.
“I’m fine Dad, no damage. Too much front brake. Don’t tell me I know“. She does indeed. Now let’s see if she’s quite so good with a paintbrush.
* Don’t ever cross the border and talk about the Forth Rail Bridge unless you’re ready to be lectured on the tedium of estuary crossing from 1890 through today, with much emphasis on how the bridge wasn’t designed for cars and should only be referred to as the “Forth Bridge”. I find a polite “oh do fuck off” works well in such circumstances.
** It’s not our fault. Much of our garden has been a riot of colour*** this year. But anything planted in pots or veg-beds is insect buffet or pathetic wilting stalk. Water them you say? Did you spend the summer in England I would reply.
*** green mostly. Dandelion invasion from the field. Next year I’m ditching the roundup and going straight to Napalm.