Weds.07.06.06. “Do you want the good news first or the bad?” said Chris, with a smile. “The head light sections are ‘making up’ fine but the screen doesn’t fit”. I reminded Chris that when we both left last night all the problems had been solved, the screen was sitting pretty on the scuttle and today we were prepared to ‘sign it off’. “Put the lid back on the chunks and return the evap milk to the fridge. It doesn’t fit today”. “Pourquoi?” I hesitantly requested. “When I came down this morning the gaps in the corners had opened again, the folding mechanism was jammed, we are back to square one”. “Bollocks” thought I.
We have faced yet another day of tinkering, bodging, filing down, taping up, screwing up, cocking up and ‘making up’, like lovers often do.
Towards the end of the afternoon we, at long last realised that the brackets were not suited to the profile of the Burlington scuttle, but unsurprisingly were perfect for the single planed curve of the Morgan. Somehow, these incompatible contours had to match. We hacked away with the grinder, coarse files, 40’s, 80’s, 120’s, 400’s, rubbing down until the plane had levelled to accommodate the brackets. This time we were confident we had all the answers. In theory, this solution should work. For the brackets to be comprehensively supported we have decided, sensibly, that the inner scuttle must have additional reinforcement to test the hypothesis; but that is another day. The comfort we gain from every minute change underpins the perception of ‘ownership of the design’. Haydn Davies has provided an exciting but blemished blue print, with every tiny adjustment the Burlington is becoming our ‘interpretation’ and not his.
The ‘tete’ dust that we had been inhaling throughout the day had prompted a strong thirst that could only be quenched by ‘Queen Stella’. We had already consumed three pints before we were joined by the Captain, accompanied by a brace of saltettes, who, instantly, began to complain about the blanket of smoke in ‘the Roy Castle corner’. Katie without delay switched on the extractor fan. Toby responded by mutating into Psycho, switching off the fan declaring that he was cold and couldn’t hear any of the conversation. Katie promptly switched the fan back on again. Toby the Psycho countered angrily by switching it off. Saltette Vicky with malleable husband Adrian left, Philip prodded Jamie to the opposite end of the bar, Danny, oblivious to the warning triangle, continued to narrate the horror story about selling his house, whilst Chris stood anxiously between Katie and Psycho.
Mercifully, Toby’s fuse only smouldered, sputtering intermittently uttering the occasional fizzy-spit. We settled into an uneasy calm. The fan remained switched off, Philip with Jamie returned to corner, Chris endeavoured to explain about expanding, divergent planes, Jo and I left. I guessed that Chris having grabbed a lift home with Toby would have suffered a ‘full on’ ear bashing about the entire affair. “Those fuckin’ Santuses, who the fuck do they think they are? Lord turd, Princess ball biter and ‘sister plain’, the pretend sweet one, their sycofuckinphantic bleatin’ fuckin’ husbands and the thick one, I’m going to really fuck them off one day”. I suspect he would.
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