WOODWORK (2)

Another Saturday loomed last weekend, as they have a habit of doing, and, after getting half drowned by a sudden downpour on our way to a couple of bank appointments (which were not, for once, anything to do with me), we headed soggily home having not bothered to call in as planned at the card shop, or the book shop, or even at the supermarket, such was our disconsolation, and the general squelchiness of our shoes.

We did, however, call in at the timber merchants because, after my midweek telephone call ascertained that I would not have to "pre-book" my timber cutting, the two short planks I was missing (or, perhaps intellectually resemble) to complete my shelving project were asked for, and then given to me in a mere trice, as I mooched around the shop looking for nails, drill bits and wood filler, looking for all the world as if I knew what I was doing.

I even managed to avoid faking (too much) some "blokey banter" as I headed to the counter and, hopefully, resembled any other "ordinary punter" with a DIY project in hand, instead of the pathetic wet-liberal, rather-too-eager-to-please idiot that I normally present to builders, plumbers, garage mechanics, or any other professionals of that ilk.

Still, with all of that stuff safely transported home, and my wet clothes safely divested, I put on my "work clothes", downed my coffee, grabbed the current audiobook CDs from out of my work bag, and set about day two of my woodwork project.

Well, there was no cricket to listen too last weekend, and it's only that or a long, long audiobook that seems to be able to keep me from impatience or distraction when it comes to doing "little jobs" such as these.

The job itself involved little more than cutting a few more pieces of timber - including the new ones -  to the required lengths, drilling a few carefully measured holes, and then screwing the whole lot together into a hopefully sturdy and substantial whole and giving birth to, voila!, two sets of soon-to-be "floating" bookshelves intended for the alcoves upstairs that were so expertly replastered last year, and from which several piles of books have remained stubbornly "in my way" ever since..

The next day, with these two vast creations now proving to be seriously "in my way" in the kitchen (I so-o-o-o need a workshop…!) and not having fallen apart overnight, I - perhaps rather surprisingly, given that I seldom have the energy to use both of my weekdays up on a project - talked myself into applying the first coat of primer and have now convinced myself that, once the top coats of paint are applied next weekend, it will be time to get myself involved in the tricky little matter of attaching them to the wall, which is not something I'm looking forward to, given their weight and my own fundamental incompetence.

Already I'm looking at the gaps I left at the back of my creations - for the battens to go into - and wondering whether I've left them too narrow, despite all of my careful measuring, so that trying to force the whole thing onto them will ultimately prove to be utterly and frustratingly futile and cause me to utter a whole barrel full of unrepeatable and unquotable oaths that might make an entire dockyard blush.

There's also the slight problem that I may have made the drop of them far too deep so that the chairs we bought may no longer be able to be pushed up against the wall like they currently are. This, I'll admit, was something I forgot all about when first measuring up, but if I compensate for this now, by moving the units nearer to the ceiling than I had originally planned, the tricky little problem of getting a screwdriver into the gap to attach the unit to the wall battens securely suddenly becomes an issue.

And so I find myself suddenly wishing I'd paid someone else to do the job...

Then there's the matter of simple engineering and the physics of the forces involved in keeping various bits of wood attached to walls and then piling a couple of hundredweights worth of novels onto them; Will I find my insomnia being still further fed by the anticipation of that sudden loud crash in the night as the whole lot comes crashing down about our ears…? Or, will I become so very blasé that, after a couple of uneventful months, I will take their sturdiness for granted and place just one more "waffer-thin" novel into place and then have the whole lot turn me into a Flat Stanley…?

As with everything I do, the worries never cease, especially as I've decided to get a little more experimental this time and try to get away from my usual "belt and braces" approach to shelf-building which seldom look pretty, but do, at least, tend to stay put.

WOODWORK

Last Saturday, once I'd got home from the building society and the supermarket, was pretty much given over to woodwork.

Not the pretty, craftsperson style of woodwork, with carving and fluting and elegant joins, but the type that involves bunging together some planks to make some shelves so that I can finally return some of the books that we removed a year ago in anticipation of the arrival of the builders back into the bedroom.

I've been putting off starting on this DIY project for ages, but finally (finally!) I was able to summon up enough of the necessary energy to make a start on it, move the salvaged planks downstairs to the few clear square feet of kitchen floor we have available, and begin cutting them to the required lengths with a handsaw, as per my swiftly jotted "design" which should all work out well if my calculations are correct...

After shifting all of those planks, I then had to wrestle the old "Black and Decker Workmate" from out of the back of the shed, where it had been cultivating mould and rust for several years, and causing an avalanche of all of the other junk that had since been placed in front of it.

Still, having won that bout, it was set up in the kitchen and the first of several trips were made up and down stairs acquiring the necessary tools, the other tools that I'd forgotten would be necessary, and the other tools that I suddenly remembered that I might actually need in order to set about such a project.

After all that, I was already pretty exhausted, I can tell you.

Still, fortified on sandwiches and cups of coffee, and with the commentary on a cricket game blaring out of the radio, I set about my measuring and cutting and found it all rather satisfying, although I was rather disappointed to discover at one crucial point that I must have thrown out my stock of 2x1 at some point in the past and that I therefore would not be able to complete my construction that day.

I also discovered that, perhaps as you might already have realised several years ago, I was a couple of planks short of a shelf unit, and that I'd have to call in at the timber merchants at some point later on in the week.

Still, all of the planks that I had were cut to the required length during the course of Saturday afternoon, and the outermost ones were screwed together to make two huge frames which are now standing purposelessly in the kitchen and waiting for phase two to begin (once I get hold of the 2x1 that I've managed to cadge from the Beloved's father) as we have continued to manoeuvre our way around them with cups of tea and various meals throughout the week.

Actually, they currently resemble those "raised bed" frames so beloved of the gardening set, so I'm pretty sure that any of our neighbours looking in through the window will have decided that's what we're up to, the poor deluded creatures.

Of course, if they are thinking that, they might also be thinking "I wouldn't have a lump of old tat like that in my house…!" which probably tells you all that you need to know about what I think of my woodworking skills.

Anyway, the little that I did achieve took most of the afternoon, and I really felt knackered after all that, which basically  seems to prove only one thing...

That I really must be getting far too old for doing that kind of thing...

MISSION: POSSIBLE

"These are the days of miracle and wonder…"

Well, kind of.

Nevertheless, at the risk of boring you all rigid again with another short tale from the mundane side, what now follows is an account of our latest mid-week adventure - one which is not really much of an "adventure" at all - which involved us heading out into the evening and the unknown until long past our usual bedtime.

Still, the online "stock check" had unreliably informed us that what we were seeking was "In Stock" in reasonable quantities and, given that similar stock had disappeared from off the warehouse shelves in the mere blink of an eye on previous occasions, we decided that we might as well chance it, setting off into the night without even having double-checked the opening times of the Swedish Palace of Flat-packed Dreams and wondering perhaps whether we would still be unlucky enough to arrive just as someone had picked up all twenty of the units to put in their shop, or the shutters slammed down for the day.

There was a troubling delay as a doctor's appointment went on longer than had been allowed for because they were "running late" but Susan Calman talking about "Appearance" on Radio Four provided a suitable distraction to the person waiting in the car park and was, in fact, so very impressive, that it was listened to all over again on iPlayer when we finally got home.

So, after being bundled unceremoniously into our car, off we went, hurtling along my usual route towards work for only the second time that day, and hoping against hope that the journey would be completed in the time between our 7:04pm departure and our perceived understanding of their presumed closing time at 8:00pm.

Happily, and despite the fact that it had been an awkward sonofabitch of a day, the travel gods were on our side for once and we pulled into the car park at about 7:45pm, joyfully noticing, on a bloody great big sign that we hadn't been able to read as we drove in, that the weekday closing time was actually 9:00pm and we had absolutely ages of time to spare.

Another reason that we'd picked this particular slot in which to attempt our purchase was that we were at least vaguely aware that the local battlers "Yoo-nee-Ted" were playing a football game that evening and we imagined that,  by blatting over there whilst was occurring, this might mean that the shop would be just a tad quieter than usual, unless, of course, everyone else had had the very same thought.

Well, it turned out that everyone hadn't had the same thought and were probably cracking open tins of lager and shouting at their various tellies even as we approached the street level entrance so as to avoid the lengthy stroll around the labyrinthine showrooms.

Happily, we were able to find the item on their computers and scribble down the reference number and followed the instruction to "Contact Staff" and it only took him four goes, and an assist from another - female - member of staff to put our order through.

At this point we were actually beginning to believe that this purchase might actually finally be about to happen, because, after having called in on at least four occasions to be told that the shelves we wanted for the bathroom - you know, those ones which were 'just right', 'exactly what we were looking for', 'totally perfect for what we need', etc. - were not in stock and that they were not expected for quite some time, and having begun to think that we might have to try and come up with another solution instead, after six months or more of trying to get that particular set of shelves from IKEA, we appeared to have finally got hold of some.

And so, indeed, it came to pass. We sat down in the comfortable armchairs of the "collection area" and watched as our particular order number jumped from the left hand column into the middle one, and then to the right, and then the mysterious doors of the warehouse opened wide and our brown cardboard parcel appeared, was signed for and we carried it towards the car which it was a tad too long a package to comfortably fit in, but we made it work and happily headed homewards with some "BritPop" playing on Radio 2 and the prospect of another weekend of wrestling with allen keys ahead of us.

"Huzzah!"

IT TASKS ME

Most unexpectedly overcomplicated task of the weekend came, perhaps unsurprisingly, courtesy of IKEA. This was the construction and putting into position of the bathroom cabinet bought with such hopefulness many moons ago and which had then lurked unloved and, perhaps more importantly, unconstructed in its box ever since.

Still it's moment had finally come and we set unenthusiastically about the task on Saturday afternoon with hope in our hearts and, the suggested requirements of a pencil, a screwdriver and a spirit level in hand, for a while at least, right up until picture number 10 in fact, things all went rather swimmingly, and we were beginning to feel a slightly more positive than usual vibe, with the sides and back panel all going together rather easily, and even the door brackets were in place when we hit a slight snag.

This was the point at which it had to be attached to the wall.

And not just any old wall, oh no, but the beautifully smooth stud wall which I’d dutifully painted to a smooth eggshell finish only a couple of weeks earlier, the shimmering plasterwork for which I’d paid my builder a small fortune to do way back in the late summer of oh-thirteen…

Nevertheless, after sending up a prayer to whatever household decorating gods might have been up there not watching the football, and having retrieved most of the rest of the not-suggested-as being-required-at-all contents my tool kit from the toolbox, I girded up such pitiful loins as I can still find these days, and, having used the suggested pencil to mark out the wall, attacked it with a power drill.

So far, so adequate.

I then applied the first of the plasterboard mounting bolts to the hole. You know the gizmos… You screw them up tightly and, by a strange scissor action, the metal gubbins around the thread is pulled back upon itself and creates a kind of wide metallic brace which makes a much stronger attachment to the wall than just a screw into some plasterboard – or some of that “stick anything” glue in a can – might and phase three could begin.

Only.

Well, they didn’t work. For some reason the thread kept on going around and around and there was precious little evidence of anything tightening inside the hole, if you’ll pardon my French. Closer examination of the packaging revealed that it would not support an object of more than 12mm thickness and, as we had only discovered after opening up our IKEA parcel and starting to build it, the spacers and the brackets and the thickness of the cabinet back itself added up to slightly more than this.

We paused, looked at it, and went off to watch “Columbo”…

Sunday came along and our damned efficient triple-shopping salvo ended at B&Q and larger, sturdier bolts were purchased and, after a visit to see the Beloved’s mother for  a Mothering Sunday coffee and cake visit, we got home and returned to the task in hand.

Sadly, removing the bracket attempt from yesterday left the wall too weak at that point for us to proceed, and so new, loftier holes were drilled and vast amounts of Polyfilla was applied to those old holes I’d made.

(Madam… Pur-leeese…!)

The newer, chunkier bolts however, also caused a few problems, in that instead of firmly holding the bolt in place as you tightened the screw to make the support, the little grippy things would grind away at the plaster and just form another great big unsupportive chasm which would then require another application of Polyfilla and we were on the brink of giving up when a sudden, unexpected Plan “C” appeared out of the blue.

I was looking through my toolbox (Ooh, Matron!) for something that might hold the shaft in position as I was attempting my screwing (Now this is getting ridiculous…) and I found some older, flimsier-looking plasterboard mounting bolts from some other, long-forgotten project. They claimed to be made by “Rawlplug” and that they were both “Heavy-Duty” and could support fixtures up to 15mm wide which, I thought, might just be enough.

More holes were drilled and the spinning crumbling effect of the “B&Q” own brand product did not occur with the “Rawlplug” versions for some inexplicable reason and, within the hour, the cabinet was attached to the wall with its door fitted, its shelves in place and everyone in the house feeling completely satisfied, not least because I had got through an entire IKEA build without having a stroppy old temper tantrum.

So now I just wait for the tell-tale disturbing noises emerging from the bathroom that tell me that the entire thing has collapsed but, so far, (Ahem… touch wood) it has remained in place and there hasn’t been a disaster of some kind.

It’s early days, I know, but I think that it’s a pretty good sign.

Yes madam, it’s still up!

(Oh, please yourselves…)

WATCHING PAINT DRY

There wasn't much time for words last weekend, even though, ultimately, I spent rather a lot of it watching paint dry… or rather waiting for paint to dry so that I could whack another coat on top of it and conceal the patchy mess I'd made of the first coat I'd put on.

You see, the decorating finally returned to the top of the agenda after having stalled when that period of relatively feverish post-building work activity ceased due to more personal problems taking priority.

Instead of completing what we'd started, we basically lived in the middle of a building site for six months, stepping gingerly around the decorating equipment in the darkness and waiting for a window of opportunity to present itself whilst getting used to the idea of bare plaster walls, unfinished woodwork, and the old paintwork, so battered and bruised by the construction work that went on around it.

But time marches on and, eventually, things need to be done and so the brushes were finally unwrapped, the paint tins dusted off, and the first tin of “kitchen and bathroom” paint from Dulux (or was it Crown…?) that we bought a couple of weekends ago finally (and amazingly) got to fulfill its destiny.

Now it’s up, at least on three of the walls – the fourth, with its half peeled paper from where the shower was installed, will need a little more thought – and it looks clean, bright and utterly Magnolia although, strangely, it calls itself “Snowdrop” if you read the label…

Funny, really, I’d have expected it to be slightly bluer or greener with a name like that.

This was, of course, not what had been planned. Way back in more colourful times we’d toyed with either a “Plum” or an “Aqua” colour and bought match-pots for both, but somehow we never got around to them and so neither got tried and we kind of got used to the colour of the pale plaster and thought that anything else might feel constricting after that.

So, after a rethink, we decided upon a similar colour to that which we’d chosen for the bedroom which was a rather appealing “Almond White” and then found that our local “B&Q” didn’t have more than one tin of that in the delightful sounding “Mould-free” version so necessary for that environment but, with a brief few steps along the aisle, “Snowdrop” became the fallback option of choice.

The funny thing about decorating, at least for those of people like me who prefer not to spend our every spare waking hour indulging in “home improvement” is that I have to learn the whole process all over again each and every time I make a start upon it.

All of the obvious little things which become almost routine once I’ve been up and at it for a couple of days, have to be recollected and I can spend a not inconsiderable amount of time indulging in basic faffing about digging out the old, rancid “decorating clothes” and putting down dustsheets and bashing the bits of decorating that I already have done with the ladder before that tin finally gets prised open and I then remember that I need to go off and find myself a stirring stick.

Actually, prising the lid off usually involves another delay as I turn the house upside-down looking for a screwdriver or something similar in order to even manage that.

After that, of course, the process of applying the paint to the wall becomes a relative breeze, once you’ve got past the initial huge splat which follows forgetting the precise science of handling a fully-laden paint roller or brush.

Oddly enough, whilst I’m never going to be an enthusiastic painter and decorator – although anyone who ever saw the floor whenever I used to paint scenery might think that I was a little too enthusiastic at times – and I find it all far too knackering and resent the time-consuming aspect of it, I usually find that I quite like handling the paint itself, and the science and mechanics and knack of getting it to flow from a brush in just such a way as to provide a clean edge where one surface meets another is one of the most satisfying quiet joys that there is.