Always Wear Gloves... and other safety tips

A few weeks ago I got home from work and Sharon walked into the hall. How nice, my wife had come to greet me home. She usually sits watching a crap Australian soap and grunts. Sometimes she will greet me by sighing when I start talking, pause her programme and put on her best pretending to be listening face. Anyway, this time she had come to greet me. She pointed over my head to my left. Not a typical greeting. I looked at where she was indicating. A damp patch on the wall. Fuck! Not ANOTHER one! We've had lots of problems with damp in places we've lived. I did some investigation and it could have been one of a number of things. The list is long and varied:

• The flat roof of the extension could be leaking.
• The pointing on the gable end is FUCKING RUBBISH!
• The point where the flat roof meets the wall and the porch roof is a mishmash of flashing.
• The flue for the boiler through that wall.
• The gas pipe and water overflow pipe for the boiler through that wall.
• The electrical output for the garage through that wall.
• The boiler leaking.

Why did it have to be that wall? That wall has lots of things going in/out/on/along-side it. Sharon's Dad is a plumber. He checked out the boiler and all looked fine.  Besides, it only seemed to leak on a windy rainy day. The flat roof looked ok. The most obvious (and easiest to fix) thing was the gas/water/cable going through the wall. The sealing was rubbish and it looked a bit wet. I needed daylight and a dry day. Not easy in winter when you work. Fortunately my Dad was available on the following Monday and he put some bitumen mastic and some stick-on flashing over them and it was nicely sealed. Good job Dad.  The damp started to fade. Phew. We decided to see how it went.

Christmas Day came. We got home from visiting family and friends and, as was now becoming habit, as we walked in we glanced up at the wall. Damp again. BOLLOCKS! "Ah well, it's Christmas Day, we'll worry about it another day." Another day came and it was VERY WINDY AND RAINY. Sharon walked into the extension. On the way she splashed through a puddle. She shouted me and I came running and jabbed at the light switch to get a better look at what was going on. "Yep. That's a bloody big puddle on the floor and water is running down the wall and.... OH SHIT!!!" BUZZZZZ... FIZZZZZ.... The light switch I just turned on was pissing water everywhere. "How am I not a twitching dead man?!". I decided to go for a quick jog to the distribution board. DAMN IT! I still hadn't got round to labelling what switch turned off what power and where. That should have been done, BY LAW, by the people who fitted it for the last owners. I hit the master switch and turned all the power off. I got a screw driver and took the cover off the light switch. WATER EVERYWHERE!!! I did what any man would have done in this situation... I panicked and rang my Dad.  He came round and we watched the less than calming water fall for a bit. We decided the most obvious and easy next thing (deny the expensive pointing option) was the mish mash of crappy flashing in the corner where lots of things meet. We did a bodge with tarpaulin. I worked out which breaker turned off the lighting in the extension by using the age old practice of turning each one on in turn until I could hear the magical sound of water and electricity buzzing. I think that's how a professional does it too. I went one better and labelled everything by continuing this trial and error system of switching one off and working out what's not on. It looks highly professional now. Ok, so 2 of the breakers have ? written under them. I have absolutely NO IDEA what wasn't on when they were off. But I'm sure that's normal.

The next step was to buy some more stick on flashing and use that, along with the bitumen mastic, to make the mishmash of meeting bits of roof and walls a watertight masterpiece. I just needed a dry day that was not a work day. That day turned out to be TODAY! Ok, so it was windy as a bastard, but that was unlikely to be a problem really. I went to B&Q and got the flashing. On my return home Sharon noticed more water, this time upstairs in the bay window on the landing. That has a little flat roof over. "No problem wife. I have flashing and bitumen. I will seal that too." I am a man!  RAAAAAARRGGGHHHH!!! 

Sorry, where was I? Yes, about to climb on the flat roof. On a very windy day. Sharon went to watch a netball tournament and made me promise not to fall. A promise I intended to keep. I set about slapping bitumen all over the corner and did a very good (messy) job of it. I then cut up the flashing and, considering the wind direction and where the overlaps should be, stuck it all over the potential problem corner. A bit of extra bitumen slopped onto the seams and it was done. I also sealed around the boiler flue. Not a bad job and it only took me half an hour. Good blokey DIY skills Tonka. I looked at my hands and thought I probably should have worn gloves as I had bitumen on them. Ah well. I then figured I would cut a couple of decent pieces of the flashing and stick them across the mini flat roof over the bay. It's only about 3 foot wide and it's a triangle. I walked over to it. It's about 7 foot off the flat roof. I couldn't reach it. I found, if I opened the window, I could pull myself up and lean backwards holding myself up with one hand whilst doing the work with the other hand. It has 2 seams on it, so I figured a piece of flashing for each. I did the smaller piece first and it was not a problem. The second seam is against the wall and it required a little more of a struggle. I needed to bend the existing flashing up and put a long piece across and push it back down. EASY... with two hands.... stood on solid ground...... on a calm day. On a windy day, whilst hanging out of a window over a roof, it was more difficult. There were 2 moments that stick in my mind. Both involved gusts of wind. The first blew the sticky flashing out of my hand and sent it sailing off the roof and onto the drive. I shouted "NOOOOOOO!", just in time for my neighbour to be outside and see me hanging out of a window in the wind and watch this unfold. I considered just cutting a new piece, but climbed back in and retrieved the piece from the drive. It had (SOMEHOW) landed sticky side up. It's not toast see. I climbed back up and manoeuvred it into place. It was too short. I needed to cut a new piece anyway. Bollocks! It was now that the second moment occurred. A HUGE gust of wind blew, but this time it didn't catch the flashing. It. Caught. Me. There was a definite hour long half a second of me thinking, "I'm falling backwards onto the flat roof, please don't let me go through it... or off it". I managed to drop everything and grab on and pull myself back inside and had the pleasant experience of worrying about falling head first down the stairs instead. Fortunately I didn't do that either. With my heart racing I set about cutting a second piece of flashing. And this time I measured it. With a bit of manipulation and a lot of swearing whilst battling against the wind, with what was essentially a sticky metal and tar sail, I managed to get it in place. I touched up the seams with mastic and congratulated myself on a job, not well done, but done all the same.

I looked at my hands. They were completely black with bitumen. "Yeah, probably should have worn those gloves. I'm sure it'll wash off in the shower." I got in the shower and started washing my hands. It was slowly coming off. Nice one. I looked down. It was in the bath. And I was stepping on it. It was smearing. All. Over. The Bath. FUUUUUUCCCKKKK!!! I briefly pictured the bollocking Sharon would give me when she got home and saw I had destroyed the bath, and leapt out. I soakedly struggled back into my trousers and ran downstairs for the bucket with all the bathroom cleaning stuff in it. I sprayed and rubbed at the bath. It was kind of coming off, but I was also adding to it. "THINK GOD DAMN IT!... First things first. Spray some of that bath cleaner shit all over the bath. Go and wash my hands in the kitchen sink. THEN clean the bath." I did this and managed to get my hands clean. The bath was another matter. It mostly came off, but some places it just wouldn't. More mental images of my bollocking from the wife. "JIF!!!" I refuse to call it Cif. What the actual fuck?! "Of course. It will do it! It cleans anything!" I got the Jif and poured it liberally. It was mostly working with the sponge, but with the old toothbrush that Sharon uses for the tiles it REALLY worked. Only very slowly, as a toothbrush is quite small. It's meant for cleaning teeth, not baths. Teeth are small. Baths are big. Still, it was working. 20 minutes later it was still working. 30 minutes later the bath was clean. I breathed easy once more.

Today I learned 4 things.

1. I hate water getting into my house more than ever.

2. Going up on the roof on a windy day is FUCKING SCARY!

3. Wear gloves when doing messy shit.
4. If I don't wear gloves when doing messy shit, wash my hands in the kitchen sink.

The worst thing is that probably still won't fix the leak. I will need to start getting quotes for the whole gable end to be re-pointed. That will be a ball ache of a job. And will also be quite costly.

The saga continues...

Turning The Tables

We recently bought the house we are renting.  We are all growed up now and have to worry about things like building insurance, damp kitchens, leaking roofs and paying back the bank a shit load of cash.  When we rented the house we rented it part furnished.  I say part, what this actually meant was the landlady had some stuff she wanted to leave there and we were seriously lacking in furniture. We came to a mutually beneficial agreement.  We would use her furniture and save us buying some and she wouldn't have to store it (Why would she? She owned a fucking house!).  This worked out rather well for us for 2 years.  Then we bought the house.  FUCK, we need to spend a gazillion dollars on furniture!  Fortunately the God of Fate was smiling on us (I actually don't believe in such a god, so let's just say things worked out well).  Our landlady didn't want all her furniture back and she offered to sell us most of it at rather a great price.  We happily accepted.  It left us with the house pretty much as we'd known it.  With 2 notable differences.  She took the nice dining room table and chairs and the mattress off the bed in the spare room.  We needed to replace these things.

The mattress was easy enough.  We walked into a shop that sold beds and mattresses and said, "Give us your cheapest double mattress please".  £99. Bargain.  It's only for the spare room. It's not like it needs to be a NASA memory foam job. (I actually HATE those memory foam things.  Feels strange when I lie on it. I like a proper sprung mattress.) We have people staying over very rarely.  Mainly because I don't like people coming round to my house (See here), let alone STAYING OVER!!! Jesus, imagine people STILL being there the next day... *shudders*.

The table was a little more work.  We had a nice table before with the landlady's.  Nice chairs too.  In our minds we were trying to find something pretty much the same.  We had a look around and it became clear this was going to cost us rather a lot of money.  Eventually we went to the home section bit of The Trafford Centre and had a look in all the different shops.  We walked into British Home Stores and saw a table and chairs that was pretty much everything we were looking for.  And bonus, it was half price.  We bought it there and then and they said someone would be in touch to arrange delivery and assembly.  £35.  Ouch! Delivery AND assembly.  Is there no other option?  I am quite capable of putting a table together.  I asked the question and said could they not just deliver it for a cheaper price and I would put it together.  They said it was an all-in-one package and the only option they had.  I had little choice but to accept it.  Then next day someone contacted me and a delivery date was set.  They ONLY did Tuesdays in my area. During office hours.  "La-la-laaaa. Not listening. That's what we do and we are not flexible."  They offered two possible Tuesdays.  What about another Tuesday that is not one of those two?  "La-la-laaaa. Not listening. That's what we do and we are not flexible."  I chose the Tuesday after Easter Monday (not daft me) and, with a little juggling, arranged to work from home.  I also arranged the mattress delivery for the same day to take full advantage of working at home that day.

The day arrived and the table arrived at 8:10am.  I was impressed.  They said between 8am and 10am.  The 2 blokes started carrying boxes into the dining room and set about building the table.  I had a quick peek to make sure it looked like the right table and left them to it. 10 minutes later they announced they were done.  It looked ok, apart from being 90 degrees wrong in the dining room, but I hadn't specified and could easily move it.  I signed the papers. As a parting shot the bloke said that my dining room floor was a mile out.  He left and I quickly legged it into the dining room. Just as I feared the table rocked like a bastard. And I don't mean it was Jimi Hendrix.  I mean it wobbled.  One leg was a few millimeters off the floor. I hoped it was the floor at that angle, as the table needed turning 90 degrees, and rotated it.

Nope. Still wobbling. Still the same leg.  Fucking fuck fuckers!

I got my tape measure out and measure all the legs. They were all the same length. Relief.  The table was fine. It had just been assembled by numpties.  I went and got my tool box.  I loosened the nuts and bolts and the table relaxed.  All four legs were now on the ground.  I got everything nicely settled and systematically tightened everything back up.  Problem solved.  Took me 5 minutes.  It wasn't exactly Rocket Science.  It was Table Science and in the scale of sciences that is at least 7 places lower than Rocket Science. Somewhere below Lawn-Mower Science, but higher than Making-Toast Science. What they had done was assemble it upside down and tighten everything up full and then flip it over onto its feet (that is rather less acrobatic than it sounds). Rather than loosely getting the pieces together upside down, turning it over, getting it sound, and then tightening everything up.  And they are the professionals!? Dickheads!  It's not like it took me long to sort, but I'd paid thirty-five fucking quid for the privilege of redoing part of their job.

In future I think I'll insist on assembling things myself even if it is included in the price.  It's not like I'm a bloody joiner or whatnot. I just have an ounce of common sense. And in this instance that was about a million times more than the so called professionals.