More advice from Max

Meanwhile I have got back onto the horse spending most of the morning making endless phone calls to ensure the project gently rolls on over this difficult period. Phil at XRN now promises the stage 2 head by the 18^th whilst Danny is hiding in Manchester on a ‘photo shoot’. Locating quarter inch copper fuel line in Wigan has proved impossible, but luckily, whilst at the plumbers’ merchants another customer recommended the White Bear Marina. 

Normally supplying the boating industry, they happen to stock the exact size of UNF pipe. I managed to purchase 5mts for £11.66. Also, during the morning, Terry Trimmer showed me a selection of leathers, each of varying colour and quality. After much deliberation a combination of Jade green seats in addition to incidentals heightened by Connaught green piping was the chosen option. Not as ‘up your bum’ as magnolia, which has become somewhat ‘chavvy’ seen regularly in 3 series drop head BMW’s driven by Moss-side drug pushers, this colour scheme oozes class also, potentially, having a longer life. My final call took me to Max to collect a new fly wheel, 8 second hand but tempered push rods, a split oil pressure, water temperature gauge, complete with 2 umbilical cords and 6 top front spring nuts and washers: all for £56.00 (a good SH flywheel £20.00, a clean SH split gauge for £20.00, 8 straight and matched push rods for £16.00 and the nuts and washers for free, because I had run out of money). Max only flipped once when his sugar level became too low. “I have spent too much fuckin time with you guys over these fuckin’ clocks. Either make your fuckin’ mind up or fuck off!” But after 6 whole meal biscuits he settled down to his usual amenable self; until I asked him about carburettors. “I sold you a pair of crackin’ SU’s but you brought um’ back. You wankers don’t know what you are doin’. I don’t have any more good ones at present but I can give you the name of a straight dealer who could fix you up, but don’t mess him about like you’ve fuckin’ done with me. What ever you do, don’t go to that fucker in Haydock, he is a twat!” By now I had received too much information and informed Max that I would not go to that twat in Haydock but would cautiously telephone his friend Andrew Turner, the straight dealer. I exchanged £56 quid for the goods, left on the usual friendly terms promptly raced back to Scarisbrick Street to verify the quality of the merchandise. Sure enough Max was as good as his word the flywheel and rods have cleaned up a treat.   

I have endeavoured to put into place much of the schedule that Chris could possibly encounter whilst I am in France. However, I sense that Chris also wants to slow down. The combination of his long awaited excursion to the Lakes combined with the subconscious neglect of his business has created a peculiar yet understandable retrospective of the past 8 months. We both should enjoy these final, rewarding moments of the new build having carelessly spent foolish amounts of money on a quest for perfection.