Yesterday was a disaster, building is just like I remember, chaos mixed with sweat and horrible dust. I am the gaffer and guess who had to work the mixer. It should have been young Alphonse’s job, but Alf doesn’t know how to use an Australian screwdriver, lets say he’s not technically minded. It was cold and there was spindrift, just like Scottish mixed, and about as enjoyable too. My builders crack is coming on nicely, and I have adopted that Scottish swagger more normally seen in the Clachaig Inn. I am not sure it convinces my co- workers that I know what I am doing. Is the Mixer harder to work than doing Mort? So far it is proving harder than any mixed route I have ever done, and as toxic as the Padarn public bar used to be on a bank holiday. Today I am going climbing, the day after I teach Alf how to make tea. Apart from the money, there are a few other perks in being a builder. The diet is a bit different from a sport climbers, maybe five times the calories, and I get to wear a pencil stub behind my right ear as a sign of seniority. The conversation is a bit limited, Rugby, and dead-fit birds. Oh yea, check out the dead-fit bird, it’s a bloke but I know alotta you folk out there in Web land are gay, so I thought I’d be cool.
There was a good bit of good news yesterday, another big rope length of overhanging fantastic climbing went down to a non builder. Thanks to the boy from Santa Cruz, ‘pull em down’.
Bar humbug and to others seasonal greetings.
