Graham came trudging down the ladder from the lofts mid-afternoon, looking all grey and bent and weary. Within seconds he was under orders to knock it off for the day and within minutes he was luxuriating under a steaming hot shower.
A cooked lunch was sizzling on the stove by the time he came down into the kitchen, and we sat down to a lovely blokey meal of potato, onion and egg.
“That were proper good,” he said, pushing back a spotless, well-polished plate.
“Thought it might hit the right spot.”
And then, allowing for a dish of stewed pears, we toddled off for a good siesta.
I woke at about 6:50, so it must have been a tiring day. [That's a spot of humour in case it was missed.]
Graham’s all mellow and happy now, basking in the warmth of good, honest labour. He says that, in terms of area the job is half done, with the sweatiest, lowest part of the roof void all nicely covered. There’s perhaps another third to cover, with better access, and then the really difficult part where the two halves of the house and their lofts join in the middle.
“It’s a matter of geometry,” he said. ”I’ll try to draw it for you if you like.”
“Not unless it’ll help you. I’ve forgot my schoolboy geometry now. It’s all Pysosceles to me.”
“Fair enough. Just so’s you understand when I need a couple more slabby things and some sticky gunge in Wickes tomorrow.”
“Oh, I shall understand that, never fear. While you’re in the store figuring out your geometries I shall treat myself to a sausage-inna-bun at the burger van in the car park.”
“Fair enough. All this waiting about must be taxing.”
“It is. You’d be surprised how taxing it is, waiting about.”
