NO REST FOR THE WICKED
I'm sure that one day, while I'm enjoying the convenience of modern al-fresco dining, that I'll be able to look at this time and laugh. I won't be able to do that today though, I hurt too much for that. In fact I hurt too much for much of anything at all - I assume that those bits of me that don't ache were surgically removed from my body sometime on Friday night and were only reattached last night. Everything else had to endure moving a large pile of crushed rock from the front of the house to the back of the house, one wheelbarrow load at a time on Saturday.
Sunday was the day when the fun really began when the timber frame for the paving stone deck was slapped together and the pile of crushed rock was spread out to all parts of the frame interior. Just when I thought that things couldn't possible get any worse than I had endured, reality strolled up behind me and subjected to to a savage, brutal mugging. I don't know what I have done to earn the distaste, ire and downright blatant hostility of anything to do with hardware but it must have been major.
Yesterday it was the turn of a hired flat plate compacter to subject me to misery without end. Not content with having its motor splutter and die every 6 seconds on average it then decided that the only way possible that it was even going to approach working was if I lifted the back end of it up so that the back of the plate had no chance of harming its delicate surface with the likes of tangible work. Compacting that layer of rock involved being stuck in the middle of the wrong end of a biceps curl while man-handling an irrationally murderous mass of petrol powered metal up and down the decking to be.
The icing on the cake from all of this? Finding out that we need more crushed rock, and that Jennie will be ordering it for Wednedsay delivery. My plans for much of this week are now as follows:
I'm sure that one day, while I'm enjoying the convenience of modern al-fresco dining, that I'll be able to look at this time and laugh. I won't be able to do that today though, I hurt too much for that. In fact I hurt too much for much of anything at all - I assume that those bits of me that don't ache were surgically removed from my body sometime on Friday night and were only reattached last night. Everything else had to endure moving a large pile of crushed rock from the front of the house to the back of the house, one wheelbarrow load at a time on Saturday.
Sunday was the day when the fun really began when the timber frame for the paving stone deck was slapped together and the pile of crushed rock was spread out to all parts of the frame interior. Just when I thought that things couldn't possible get any worse than I had endured, reality strolled up behind me and subjected to to a savage, brutal mugging. I don't know what I have done to earn the distaste, ire and downright blatant hostility of anything to do with hardware but it must have been major.
Yesterday it was the turn of a hired flat plate compacter to subject me to misery without end. Not content with having its motor splutter and die every 6 seconds on average it then decided that the only way possible that it was even going to approach working was if I lifted the back end of it up so that the back of the plate had no chance of harming its delicate surface with the likes of tangible work. Compacting that layer of rock involved being stuck in the middle of the wrong end of a biceps curl while man-handling an irrationally murderous mass of petrol powered metal up and down the decking to be.
The icing on the cake from all of this? Finding out that we need more crushed rock, and that Jennie will be ordering it for Wednedsay delivery. My plans for much of this week are now as follows:
- Monday - Wake up, curse the fact that I'm still alive, go to work, come home, move a large pile of sand from the front of the house to the back of the house, collapse in the lounge room, pray for death and then go to bed,
- Tuesday - Wake up, curse the fact that I'm still alive, go to work, come home, move 32 square meters of paving stones from the front of the house to the back of the house, collapse in the lounge room, pray for death and then go to bed,
- Wednesday - Wake up, curse the fact that I'm still alive, go to work, come home, move more of that fuckinig crushed rock from the front of the house to the back of the house, spread that rock out for compacting, collapse in the loungeroom, pray for death and then go to bed,
- Thursday - Slip into a coma and then fade gently into death. Or, wake up and curse the fact that I'm still alive should I prove to be less than fortunate... Plough through the rest of the day with a smile on my lips (rictus of horror) and a song in my heart (silent shriek of pained terror) as I wait with breathless anticipation for the new trial of pain to be given...
2 comments:
After I leave this note I think your final comment will actually read "the only thing I hate more than the compactor is my wife who is the bitch responsible for putting me through this hell."
Your blog isn't finished...it should read
" * Thursday - My wife just informed me she is picking up the compactor on her way home from work on Thursday so that I can compact the new crushed rock. YIPPEE!!!
* Friday - move the sand from the pile I have made in the back yard to the crushed rock then level it.
* Saturday 8 - 11am, start laying pavers then head off to gaming where my buddies can hear me whine about how out of shape I am and how sore I am because of the bitch I married (they're all sadists in Canada) while my wife stays in relative peace with our three children at home.
* Sunday, continue to lay pavers until they are all done, then walk across them and tap uneve pavers with a mallet until all is even and good. Once complete, it's time to rotary hoe the garden beds"
I think you really should start a new blog after this Darling, because on Monday week I have 15 cubic meters of garden soil and 15 of mulch coming...REJOICE, you can put off the gym membership for awhile yet.
Oh and did I mention...LOVE YOU!
My plans for Sunday involve me digging a large hole, something about 2 meters in length, and then jumping in it and encouraging Oscar to bury me.
Bah! Who am I kidding? Like anyone could dig *any* sizable hole in that soil without the aid of explosives...
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