Too much to chew.

Fri.22.02.08. It has been one of those gathering, collecting butterfly days when there has been a futile attempt to complete fifteen tasks but achieving none. I had been requested to bring to Westmead a shopping list of diverse old and new components for the Burlington ‘mission’. The ‘dummy’ dash together with the boxed up gauges and clocks, a roll of paper to cut the patterns for the carpets, one of the original side screens, which could form the basis of a template for an improved version, the ‘Burlington’ badge, the chassis recognition plates and ultimately the largest black marker pen in the world to label everything. Naturally, after the briefest of inspection none of the items claimed any attention because the location and fixing of the bonnet catches consumed the entire afternoon.

The debate  initially was, identifying the top and bottom of the catches. The answer to which we didn’t actually decide. There needs to be sufficient but not excessive tension to close the bonnet but not produce over stress on the spring mechanism.

So, although a seemingly simple task, their location is fraught with dangers. By drawing around the total hinge and transferring these measurements to a wooden base the spacing between the top and bottom-fixing bracket could be calculated, therefore resolving the problem. A second attempt proved to be successful offering sufficient tension thus defining the correct gap between the two components. But before the catches can be fixed to the engine side panels the inner halves of the bonnet need to be rubbed down and primed with satin black. The precise position of the bonnet has been decided but once removed and later re-set there is no guarantee that it will return to the exact spot So, it would be prudent not to attempt to fit the catches until the painting is complete. For once common sense has prevailed. I packed the two halves into my car in preparation for spraying.

We have returned to the Bowling Green but no one appears to know why. Having assembled the group the Doc announced that he wanted to meet up with Lowtie and the Preacher who were still in self exile in the Millstone. A mass exodus ensued leaving just Jo and I slightly bemused. Cockney Mick who was a late straggler came in to find the place empty but remained long enough to exchange a few pearls of wisdom. For some strange reason he was stinking of fish simultaneously dropping an horrendous fart chemically fusing with his general odour to produce a cocktail of pungent whiffs that I had never experienced before or wish to do so again: decomposing crustacean meets rotten egg; the combined melange forcing tears and nosebleeds.  It was that bad that I couldn’t really concentrate on exactly what he was saying but he had been working down at the Oak for most of the day raisin’ ceilins’ an’ re-designin’ the bar top. “Its goanna look fackin’ great when I’ve finished wiv it. Open spaces an’ everifin’. I know someone, in fact, ‘ees a mate, who’s got this aged timber that would be the dog’s on top o’ the bar. He’ll let mi ‘ave it foa a score, cos ‘ees a mate, an’ I’ll charge the Doc a ton, cos ‘ees a mate as well”. We never did get to the bottom of his unusual air but I expect that the chaps in the Millstone may ask.