Yesterday morning, the door bell rang. I was still in my pink flannelette pyjamas at 8.30am, folding a pile of washing.
It was Mr Rooney, our revered builder, brandishing his tool box, answering my blog plea for assistance to repair the wood rot on our deck railings.
There was no time for acute embarrassment for my slovenly state, because out came his cordless nail gun. He was a man on a mission.
|This may or may not be Mr Rooney's nail gun of choice. He was too quick for me to jot down the exact brand.|
Bang. Bang. Bang.
He secured all the loose boards on the worst section of the deck rails - a quick fix until he returns to replace it.
With his steel-capped boots, he gave each section of rails the "I'm going to kick your head in" test. If they withstand an almighty stomp, they pass.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
"Yep. They're good."
"It's just this section," Mr Rooney said pointing to the rotted boards. "That's completely rooted! (for my overseas readers, that's Australian building industry terminology for f*cked)
"Wood rot's like cancer. You can't really do anything to stop it. But I can replace this section easily when I come back to do the rest of the work."
And that was that.
In and out, like the breath of a nail gun gas cartridge. To return another day.