Continued frustration

                                            Burlington Diary August 2006

Tues.01.08.06. Chris has pressed on with the rubbing down of the car panels. It is a bloody horrible job particularly in hot weather where the tete dust just hangs like an intimidating fine mist. The problem with this sinister, shadowy haze is that it no doubt it causes premature blindness with combined side effects of silicosis along with multi-organ failure. Modern well-equipped, ventilated workshops can still fall foul from the effects of the dust. The longevity of ‘bodymen’ must compare favourably with the life expectancy of coal miners, mill workers or chimney sweeps; trades that no longer exist, except in The Republic of China. 

Leaving him to it, I was dispatched to Andy and Marks to check on the progress of the chassis. Mark will only return to work tomorrow after working off sight, strangely Andy could not locate the chassis in his engineering shop. As it turned out the chassis was actually next-door with Edwin, the shot blaster. I was soon to learn that ‘apprehensive Edwin’ was a first class chin scratcher whose pot was always half empty. He was duty bound to find pointless problems, meaningless unnecessary difficulties with the ‘very’ uncomplicated process of shot blasting. “You see, scratch of chin, it’s too thin, the shot will just blast holes in these outriggers” he pontificated. “I wouldn’t want to risk it if I was you, the power of the shot could rip off those thinner cross members, I’ve seen it happen before” he added. “But, I’ll do it if you really insist: £60 for the blast and £190 for the powder coating”. I was feeling pretty pissed off given this scenario; the last thing I required was this negative, weedy, scouse,  ‘know it all’ self-righteously informing me that the chassis was a piece of flimsy tin that would be blown away by his all powerful machine. I said that I would consult with my boss and also Mark as to whether they thought the treatment would be too fierce. If so, what would be the options? I left Edwin to his empty pot but no doubt this is a critical set back. At this stage to have the chassis incomplete could seriously jeopardise the progress of the entire project.

In essence we have been treading water for five weeks, perhaps, we should consider joining Richard, Dave, Ian and the sheepdips of Whittle le Woods for a consolation drink in the bar of the ‘fuck off bin’: this situation is of our own making, the wheels have definitely come off. This has not been a good day. This evening I shall retire to the Oak for a gallon of Stella.

There was a subdued atmosphere in the Oak, the very definite change in the weather from a month of extreme high temperatures to one of cold, wet and windy days had dampened every ones spirits. Having not seen Toby since we had arrived back I asked David and Chris where he was: fully expecting that he was on his holidays, the last thing I expected was that he had ‘jacked’. Apparently he was planning to put in a request for a rise of £10.00 per hour for his driving services on the flowers. “Are you mad, David doesn’t even get that!” was the advice from Chris. Tactful as ever Chris had lit the blue touch paper, so Toby again, rapidly mutated into Psycho. “You fuckers are all the same, you always stick together, you bastards!” ranted Psycho. This conversation had taken place in his van on the way back to Standish after a session in the Oak. The red mist continued until they pulled up outside Westmead. Psycho seized another, even more priceless, opportunity to vent his spleen offering to give all the neighbours a wake up call with a barrage of expletives. Chris made vain attempts to calm him down but the trigger had been well and truly pulled: Toby was off on one. The following day Toby purposely messed up a flower delivery, later informing David that he wanted to work a months’ notice. As in the past, he didn’t pitch up for work the following morning: he has not been seen since. This loose cannon, unpredictable flake, has thankfully, left the building.

Andy Lewis has eventually finished the cellar conversion at Planet Lowton. With only minor snags to address he still plans one last visit before the job can be signed off. Being aware of Lowties’ paranoia regarding leaks, faulty taps or anything remotely associated with burst pipes Lewis is plotting a cruel jape, at John’s expense. He has bought a small electronic device that simulates exactly the sound of a ‘dripping tap’. This he plans to secrete the mechanism behind a wall connecting control to the light switch. Every time the light switch is thrown the tap begins to drip. Lowton will go mental. In a fury, the prospect of him ripping down walls and ceilings to locate the apparent source of escaping water is not unthinkable. Having lived with a flooding cellar for the past 4 years the thought of more leaks will send Lowtie into orbit. Lewis plans his subterfuge tomorrow.