Monday 15 July 2013
Hop(e), Skip and a Jump(lead)
Dear Reader, you may have noticed my suspicious absence over the last week. I am blaming this on being unable to reach my house over the mountains of soil, dirt and clay surrounding our moat. 10 cubic yards of cement it took to fill the trenches. Having, admittedly only an elementary grasp of mathematical principles, we calculated that this would mean that 10 cubic yards of earth would therefore have been excavated, and consequently budgeted for 'A Helluva Big Skip'.
As with most things with this project, the seemingly straightforward tasks appear blighted with unforeseen issues ranging from the frustrating to the downright bizarre. Shoveling excavated soil was to become one of these. Weeks of heavy rainfall, combined with clay soil and the odd clump of concrete/ancient rock carving/radioactive waste, had formed into a mutant stew akin to superglue and dog poo (did you not see that Blue Peter episode?). Far from sliding effortlessly onto shovel, this stuck. To everything. We were forced to use the garden fork to bodge at bits of it and then cleave this from the tines with bare and sticky mits. This became less and less amusing as the days wore on, battling through outbursts of rain interspersed with sunshine so hot our skulls ached.
After days of such larks, Skip 1 was full. No amount of jumping/falling over would compress it any more. The skip hire company (which shall remain nameless due to impending lawsuit) displayed a tentative grasp of rudimentary logic and instead of collecting the full skip and replacing it with another, empty one, refused to answer their phone for several days. Work stopped. Tempers frayed. Dog poo glue failed as a entrepreneurial concept and the moat remained. On day 4 I returned home to find that the skip hire company had visited. However, the sight that presented itself as I turned into the cul-de-sac, weaving past puzzled onlookers and a guy who looked suspiciously like Damien Hirst, was nothing short of modern art. They had indeed fulfilled their promise to bring another empty skip. This they had placed on top of the full skip, leaving a rickety and mountainous structure on our driveway.
Several expletive-dappled conversations to the firm ensued and by the Thursday, we were (un)happily tackling the clay mountain once more. I am pleased to report that 2 skips later I am able to get down to my garden again (with the aid of a combat swing and a ladder). I am currently sitting in the sunshine rewriting a maths textbook to incorporate trench-logic and listing 'An Incredible New Adhesive- sticks like s**t!' on eBay.
As with most things with this project, the seemingly straightforward tasks appear blighted with unforeseen issues ranging from the frustrating to the downright bizarre. Shoveling excavated soil was to become one of these. Weeks of heavy rainfall, combined with clay soil and the odd clump of concrete/ancient rock carving/radioactive waste, had formed into a mutant stew akin to superglue and dog poo (did you not see that Blue Peter episode?). Far from sliding effortlessly onto shovel, this stuck. To everything. We were forced to use the garden fork to bodge at bits of it and then cleave this from the tines with bare and sticky mits. This became less and less amusing as the days wore on, battling through outbursts of rain interspersed with sunshine so hot our skulls ached.
After days of such larks, Skip 1 was full. No amount of jumping/falling over would compress it any more. The skip hire company (which shall remain nameless due to impending lawsuit) displayed a tentative grasp of rudimentary logic and instead of collecting the full skip and replacing it with another, empty one, refused to answer their phone for several days. Work stopped. Tempers frayed. Dog poo glue failed as a entrepreneurial concept and the moat remained. On day 4 I returned home to find that the skip hire company had visited. However, the sight that presented itself as I turned into the cul-de-sac, weaving past puzzled onlookers and a guy who looked suspiciously like Damien Hirst, was nothing short of modern art. They had indeed fulfilled their promise to bring another empty skip. This they had placed on top of the full skip, leaving a rickety and mountainous structure on our driveway.
Several expletive-dappled conversations to the firm ensued and by the Thursday, we were (un)happily tackling the clay mountain once more. I am pleased to report that 2 skips later I am able to get down to my garden again (with the aid of a combat swing and a ladder). I am currently sitting in the sunshine rewriting a maths textbook to incorporate trench-logic and listing 'An Incredible New Adhesive- sticks like s**t!' on eBay.
Monday 1 July 2013
Sue the Builder and Phil the Wheelbarrow
Trenches dug and fought in, it was time to pour the concrete. Cue, three huge, noisy and slushy lorries liberally blocking all three routes to our house at 7am "Builders Time" (10:15ish).
I don't know if you've ever had to pour 10 cubic metres of concrete, but it is a far from tidy business. In the style of Nigella, I will recount the process:
First, take a large cement truck filled to the top with sand and cement mix. Add liberal amounts of blustery winds and generate instant sandstorm. Apply this fine mist to the recently and impeccably powerwashed drive of neighbour (Colin). Smile cringingly as said lorry reverses up drive, adding tire tracks to the newly generated beach.
Secondly, and much later, add a second truck complete with hose to attach to the first truck in order to pump the concrete through. Discover hose is too small and experiment messily and liberally with various gung ho methods. (Catching over-spray in shorts, buckets, neighbours' plant pots and eventually power wash car with it).
Finally, pump attached, lorry spewing forth, add four noisy builders and a dash of expletives to the entire affair. Discover hose is not only too b*@%dy small, but also too b*@%dy short aswell. Begin filling garage lavishly with concrete.
All things are now ready.
Unfortunately in the midst of all this chaos, our elderly neighbour fell ill (probably after watching what was being done to his vista) and the emergency services were called. The arrival of a paramedic car and an ambulance exacerbated the scene from ice road truckers and I watched on, cringing inside, as the ambulance was forced to mount the pavement and rock past the lorries at a rather alarming incline. I have since found out that fortunately, Fred is recovering well. I'm not sure I can say the same for the ambulance's suspension.
Trenches finally filled, and the garage too, the lorries and their noisy occupants left and Alex and I were able to contemplate the next few hours in dusty peace. As I surveyed the scene, trenches painstakingly dug and now full again, I felt a cold, sinking feeling...bugger, there goes another pair of wellies!
I don't know if you've ever had to pour 10 cubic metres of concrete, but it is a far from tidy business. In the style of Nigella, I will recount the process:
First, take a large cement truck filled to the top with sand and cement mix. Add liberal amounts of blustery winds and generate instant sandstorm. Apply this fine mist to the recently and impeccably powerwashed drive of neighbour (Colin). Smile cringingly as said lorry reverses up drive, adding tire tracks to the newly generated beach.
Secondly, and much later, add a second truck complete with hose to attach to the first truck in order to pump the concrete through. Discover hose is too small and experiment messily and liberally with various gung ho methods. (Catching over-spray in shorts, buckets, neighbours' plant pots and eventually power wash car with it).
Finally, pump attached, lorry spewing forth, add four noisy builders and a dash of expletives to the entire affair. Discover hose is not only too b*@%dy small, but also too b*@%dy short aswell. Begin filling garage lavishly with concrete.
All things are now ready.
Unfortunately in the midst of all this chaos, our elderly neighbour fell ill (probably after watching what was being done to his vista) and the emergency services were called. The arrival of a paramedic car and an ambulance exacerbated the scene from ice road truckers and I watched on, cringing inside, as the ambulance was forced to mount the pavement and rock past the lorries at a rather alarming incline. I have since found out that fortunately, Fred is recovering well. I'm not sure I can say the same for the ambulance's suspension.
Trenches finally filled, and the garage too, the lorries and their noisy occupants left and Alex and I were able to contemplate the next few hours in dusty peace. As I surveyed the scene, trenches painstakingly dug and now full again, I felt a cold, sinking feeling...bugger, there goes another pair of wellies!
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