Construction Corvid
So. A building site in Tooting.
Work 8-5.30.
There is: a kettle, a loo, a bath, and some electricity.
There is also a liberal and ever regenerating layer of sawdust, plaster dust, brick dust, general dust and random grub over *everything*. All possessions must be kept in bin-liners to stop them turning dun and filthy. Sleep is a thing that happens on a glorified lilo on the floor when your neurons refuse to remain conscious any longer. Inexplicable bruises and all too explainable my-arms-want-to-fall-off pain is a daily occurrence.
On site is...
My brother James: on hand boss-man.
Nicky: plasterer with an accent that sounds vaguely South African (but isn't).
Woz: Spark, plumber and all round 'get it done' bloke. Would be a diamond cockney geezer if he actually came from the Eastend.
Adam: Upper-middle class boy who was bored flying Ryan Air planes and is currently Woz's assistant but will likely disappear when college starts.
Steffan: Decorator. Bulgarian. Calls me 'Miss' for some weird reason best known to himself.
(As a side note, I should like to point out to neurons of the lupine persuasion that I don't fancy any of them, and the only six-pack I've seen was of beer. So there.)
Being on site is a bit like being on a film set, only slightly more grubby and boring. The work and chat is similar, and the banter is the same but worse. (Woz and Adam had new tape measures, so had to find out whose was longest and could hold up the most. Steffan calls his large roller 'the sex machine' because 'it does sooo much' and the fine-grade roller is 'the ceiling fucker' because it paints ceilings. Obviously.)
All of this has lead to various sarcastic neuron verbiage, because it turns out builders can almost blush when there's a well-spoken female voice calling out things like, "Steffan, I think your sex machine is broken - it doesn't do that much - and I'm certainly not satisfied..." or "Thank you for the screw - oooh, that's the longest I've ever had..." or very occasionally just growling out stuff like 'fuck-biscuits' or 'flaming cock monkeys' when paint is misbehaving or ceilings are trying to kill her.
It's quite the slog for 50quid a day when the most I'm used to doing is wielding a pen, but it might stop my Barclaycard from trying to eat my souls, so I'd better get on with it.
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This weekend I plan to sleep, write, pokk the net, and enjoy the fact I'm not covered in grit, paint and dust. Monday morning I need to be up at 5am and it starts all over again. Ergh.
Work 8-5.30.
There is: a kettle, a loo, a bath, and some electricity.
There is also a liberal and ever regenerating layer of sawdust, plaster dust, brick dust, general dust and random grub over *everything*. All possessions must be kept in bin-liners to stop them turning dun and filthy. Sleep is a thing that happens on a glorified lilo on the floor when your neurons refuse to remain conscious any longer. Inexplicable bruises and all too explainable my-arms-want-to-fall-off pain is a daily occurrence.
On site is...
My brother James: on hand boss-man.
Nicky: plasterer with an accent that sounds vaguely South African (but isn't).
Woz: Spark, plumber and all round 'get it done' bloke. Would be a diamond cockney geezer if he actually came from the Eastend.
Adam: Upper-middle class boy who was bored flying Ryan Air planes and is currently Woz's assistant but will likely disappear when college starts.
Steffan: Decorator. Bulgarian. Calls me 'Miss' for some weird reason best known to himself.
(As a side note, I should like to point out to neurons of the lupine persuasion that I don't fancy any of them, and the only six-pack I've seen was of beer. So there.)
Being on site is a bit like being on a film set, only slightly more grubby and boring. The work and chat is similar, and the banter is the same but worse. (Woz and Adam had new tape measures, so had to find out whose was longest and could hold up the most. Steffan calls his large roller 'the sex machine' because 'it does sooo much' and the fine-grade roller is 'the ceiling fucker' because it paints ceilings. Obviously.)
All of this has lead to various sarcastic neuron verbiage, because it turns out builders can almost blush when there's a well-spoken female voice calling out things like, "Steffan, I think your sex machine is broken - it doesn't do that much - and I'm certainly not satisfied..." or "Thank you for the screw - oooh, that's the longest I've ever had..." or very occasionally just growling out stuff like 'fuck-biscuits' or 'flaming cock monkeys' when paint is misbehaving or ceilings are trying to kill her.
It's quite the slog for 50quid a day when the most I'm used to doing is wielding a pen, but it might stop my Barclaycard from trying to eat my souls, so I'd better get on with it.
=====
This weekend I plan to sleep, write, pokk the net, and enjoy the fact I'm not covered in grit, paint and dust. Monday morning I need to be up at 5am and it starts all over again. Ergh.