Completed Dash

Thurs.22.11.07. The few lumps and bumps that I couldn’t remove with the router had to be ‘hand’ sanded to tidy the slot that I had cautiously begun the day before. The groove had been cut a little too large but the plastic strip, containing the switch decals, rests comfortably and once stained then lacquered, should remain unnoticed. The dash is at the stage where a series of ever decreasing coarseness of glass paper can be safely applied. All the dangerous moments of potential disaster are now behind me. The threat of an uncontrollable router spinning out of control carving a catastrophic swath through the centre of the precious timber are gratefully in the past. Even an idiot can apply lighter and lighter glass paper to achieve the ultimate mirrored finish to the wood. Nevertheless, the sooner the dash is handed over to Richie so that he can cast his ‘trained artisan eye’ over my clumsy effort producing his ‘deep stain’ magic the happier I shall be. I, of course, am belittling the talents that I have quickly developed. The dash is not crude or badly fashioned. My starting point was a rough sawn elongated plank of timber 130cms by 20cms provided by Alain Luzan in Tarascon, (slightly warped due to my wanking tenant in France), that had to be drawn, cut to shape, have 5 different circumferences of sockets precisely located and drilled, all the shoulders routered carefully profiled, also I had to construct a tapered rounded matching under trim and finally, permanently bond an exact ‘anti warp’ 6mm plywood replica as an additional form of reinforcement. I have skilfully manipulated complex tools, applied logical, considered, thoughtful practises and successfully achieved the goal that was set. I have researched, designed and made in every sense of the word a ‘professional outcome’. 

All that Richie needs to do is slap a bit of stain on the wood, the job is done and he’ll take all the fuckin’ glory.

Throughout the morning the onerous task of sanding down the additional layers of ply that had been added to the gearbox tunnel cover, to create a ‘sexy look’, had been gradually chipping away in one of the empty recesses contained in my black vacuous mind; filed away in ‘things never to do again’. The very thought of clouds of saw dust choking the cellar as well as my respiratory system, which I had foolishly assumed belonged to a past life, surfaced as another unwanted back catalogue of reality. But, “sexy he wants and sexy he gets”. Two hours and six sanding belts later the bulk of the shaping was either on the floor or down my throat; but the tunnel had been prepared to take the first round of filler. Unfortunately, I strongly suspected that I had been in this ‘place’ before. Today’s ‘Sexy’ was in fact one of the earlier models, preceding ‘70’s persuaders’, ‘austere minimalist’ and ‘butch brute’. All of which have their own special ‘place’ on the shelves of my cellar enveloped in special dust from months of previous repetitive labour.