For my sins I have a government job. This is bad in a boom but not so bad in a recession. I was reading recently about some people getting a pay freeze. I wouldn’t sweat it – try a 17% pay cut. It’ll do wonders for your morale.
Anyway, I’m loitering at home for the last few days as I have to hand back some un-taken leave at the end of March if I don’t take it. A bad thing if you have a dull March but as we hit 17 Deg C today I can’t complain.
The physio is doing great things to my hip and knee but terrible things to my bank account. My children are shoeless but I am running pain-free so their sacrifice is for a good cause. I was able to crank out a 7.5 mile hill session on Saturday, 14 miles on Sunday, 4 on Tuesday and 8.5 miles today. Everything is on track for a decent few months of training.
In my time off my wife has given me loads of jobs that would normally only be done on the strict understanding that sexual favours would be exchanged almost immediately. Y’know the sort – things like raking the gravel or cutting the hedge or sweeping something considered dusty. Strictly nothing requiring working on engines or power tools.
One of these jobs was hanging plates on a wall – I shit you not.
I did learn that B’nQ make Dick Turpin look like a school girl when it comes to charging for plate hanging brackets. How does €28.50 grab you for 3 brackets – As my mum would say – They must have big windows in that shop – ’cause the saw you coming!
I also got to assemble a futon, assemble a flat-pack Ikea table and hang a mirror on the wall. All vital jobs for a wife but bottom of the list jobs for a red-blooded man of action like yours truly.
The last of these jobs for no shag was re-installing the clothes line in the back garden. At least this was one of those rotating jobs that needs a concrete base so I got to buy concrete and dig a hole and do lots of stuff with a shovel and a wheelbarrow. If you ever have to do this sort of job here are some handy tips:
Don’t load bags of cement into your car on top of sharp stuff – the bag will rip and you will look like a blouse as you cover your car and clothes in concrete.
Don’t use a 5-year-old as your ganger when you’re digging – especially if it’s a girl. They’ll keep telling you that you’re shit at your job and to hurry up.
Don’t, and I can’t emphasise this one enough, use a 3-year-old to mix the concrete. He’ll do a half arsed job on it, lose interest, wander off to the climbing frame and shit in his pants, leaving you in a dilemma – sort him out or keep going with the concrete.
I went with the concrete as it sets faster than shit.
Now I only have 3 days to wait until the clothes line goes into the concrete, is visibly crooked, is commented on by everyone who lives with me (not in a positive way) and causes my wife both glee and embarrassment as she points it out to visitors.
To mitigate against this I put a time capsule into the concrete (a butter tub with a sheet of paper in it) confirming that the clothes line was put up by a 40-year-old, a 5-year-old and a 3-year-old. As it is dug up in 100 years (or 3, more like) they (the silver suit wearing, pill eating, levitating car owning people of the future) will understand that the reason for it being crooked was because the mental age of the crew was about 7.