The damp contractors came round today. Three of them, each in a uniform of plaster-spattered utility trousers, sturdy boots, and a corporate fleecy jacket.
They were breezy but firm. You know, in that way that people have when they don’t need you to finish a sentence.
“So we’ll just whip that plaster board off, add the tanking - it’s basically the stuff they use to keep the water in swimming pools - then we’ll reskim the plaster on top, okay sir? Should take around an hour an’ a half, tops, we’ll get that done for you, fairly straightforward really…”
Later, when they’d gone, I phoned Sammy and we both realised over face-time that the three wise men had only done half the job. I phoned up. Only one came back. He’s applied thick plaster to the brickwork (all of it this time) and we’re letting it dry over the next few days. My guess is that they’ll be back later in the week to finish it off.
It’s funny how confident you get with tradespeople when you’re older. I’m about as practically minded as a racoon in a sculpture class, so for me the language of DIY and plumbing and tiling and fixings is foreign. Yet, somehow these days we’re able to slam the brakes on shoddy workmanship and get ‘em back to do it properly. I say ‘we’ because Sammy, the daughter of a roofer and a lady who had no qualms about anything at all, is much more able with the ol’ tradesperson’s confidence than I am. I’m getting better though. Honest, mate.
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