Laying patio slabs, DIY style

We've been engaged in a new project, this time to turn the garden into the little oasis of peace and calm you see in the picture.

The original garden was typical Irish suburban, much like the builders left it 30-odd years ago. A grass lawn, some overgrowth of shrubs (and briars), and a tumbledown shed.

At first the plan was to remove the old shed, perhaps simply pave the area as a barrier against the re-emergence of briars, then replace the structure with another shed. But once we'd taken out the rotten timber, shrubs and weeds, the area was such a natural sun trap that it seemed a pity to give it over to another hostel for unwanted junk. So the idea of a patio was born.

A growth of ivy was taken off the boundary wall and the ground thoroughly dug to eliminate any root systems of this or the troublesome briars. The ground was then roughly levelled to give a firm footing for the structure that would eventually go on top. As the site sloped towards the house, any digging at this end would mean that there would be less as one worked out of the corner (provided, of course, the ground remained firm underfoot, which it did in this case).

Despite the precaution of digging up roots and weeds, these can grow back over time, so to inhibit these a membrane is laid, leaving enough overlap all around. Membranes can be bought by the roll in most DIY or Garden centres and they are pinned to the soil to stop slippage using plastic pegs that can be bought seperately. The membrane is water permeable, so the underlying ground won't dry out, useful if you plan on having plants coming up through it, for example. The roll is about four to five feet in width, so it's necessary to overlap sections and (as in this image) seal the overlaps with gaffer tape.

I proposed enclosing the supporting sand base to the slabs in a ring of concrete blocks. The blocks were laid on a bed of mortar made from sand and cement laid directly onto the membrane. There is no additional digging as I'm relying on the ring of blocks not to move on the already dug and stable ground. I suppose time will test that theory. The membrane is then covered in medium washed sand obtained from a builders' providers.

To fill the first "cell" took about two tonnes of sand. The sand is then screeded with a straight timber so that it can be levelled off. Once any imperfections have been filled or planed with the shovel as necessary, the surface is ready for the slabs to be laid out.

Naturally the cats had to try walking on the surface first to see if it was up to standard.

We bought Indian Quartz slabs from Roadstone and as they came in three different sizes, they were first laid out to test the pattern. The desired effect was a rough surface, and these slabs come with a naturally uneven one. The slabs would ultimately be mortared securely into place, but for now the laying out was simply done dry.

A little water, however, shows you the true colour of the slab.

The slabs were laid with about a two-inch gap between the outer edge and the boundary walls. This eliminated cutting and was the best solution in that the back wall and side walls were not at 90 degrees to one another, so keeping back a bit was best. The gap was filled later using some sand and a topping of beach cobbles for a decorative and pleasing effect. The slabs were also laid with about an inch and a half overhang over the concrete blocks. This produces an image of the patio "hanging" in mid air.

The first cell having been laid out, I decided to press on and add the next piece, which was to make the patio a kind of inverted "L" shape. Again, the soil was dug back to a reasonable level, and blocks laid on membrane to form edges for the cell. This took nearly three tonnes of sand to fill up, being a larger area.

Finally, the slabs were laid in their final positions -- checked by use of a line and, of course, a spirit level -- with a good bed of mortar underneath. There are few shortcuts here: each slab has to be bedded thoroughly, no "five blobs" work will do!

The slabs in the first cell were grouted using a barely-moist mix of sand and cement. I wasn't pleased with the outcome, but felt better when the grout lines were emphasised by dragging a pointed stone along them while still not quite gone off. This caused a more pleasing profile (you'll see a "Before" and "After" photo from the other section later).

With the first cell all but completed, we hung some sheets of water reed on the back wall and along the side. This was attached to the wall on wires strung between eye bolts fixed to the wall with rawlplugs. It hovers about an inch above ground level so that water can run off it.

Patio containers were starting to make their appearance at this stage, as the garden centres were being browsed for bargains... In the foreground are some lavendar plants which had been planted into the soil before we thought of doing the patio. Not wishing to disturb these, I resolved to build around them.

With the slabs laid and the grouting just about finished in the second cell, the grout lines were tidied up by scraping with my trusty pointed stone. The waste was brushed off lightly with a broom to give a satisfactory finish...

The next stage of the job involved tackling the area off the patio. I envisaged this area being gravelled, so we chose some pebble which would complement the colour of the patio.

The first job was the removal of the sod from the area to be gravelled, or pebbled, if you prefer. This took place over the course of a week when it never stopped raining and I didn't expect any work to get done. There was quite a bit of slipping and sliding involved, but it was otherwise straightforward. An old kerbing put in around the lavendar was taken out.

The pebbles arrived when it was raining, but I persevered, quite late in the day, quickly laid out some membrane (cutting slits in it for the existing lavendar plants) and threw down some barrows of stones "just to see"...

This high pink colour of the pebbles was caused by pink sand stuck to it which washed off nicely over the coming days. The pebble is a lighter pink, with some occasional white and black stones.

Looking back towards the house, you can see where I corralled the pebbles in another line of concrete blocks, this time set on edge and in a shallow foundation of sand and cement. Some of the smaller flags made stepping stones through the pebble, and a fountain (the electric pump's cable fed through a conduit under the pebble to prevent wear as the stones move underfoot) added a nice feature whose trickling water adds a restful atmosphere when one is sitting out.

That concludes the work two-thirds of the width of the garden. The other side having a dilapidated wooden fence and hedge it was necessary to have these pulled out and a new garden wall constructed before continuing with the rest of the paving work. I'll post more information on that later project when I can.

Snug as a bug II

Attic insulation is possible medicine for our disease of upper house coldness. So, when the mighty B&Q (all bow) announced a 50% off sale, Herself and I trundled up to them this morning with plans for laying itch-free high-tech, half-price lagging in the attic.

Too late.

A mound of rolls of insulation that met us in an aisle -- the very type we were willing to spend money on -- turned out to be already on wheels. Some baldy conscience speaking on a mobile phone was heading off with it towards the checkout, bemoaning to whoever was on the line that the good stuff was gone and the other stuff too dear.

At least he had stuff.

We looked at the blank space once occupied by the rolls of recycled plastic bottles.

"Jumpers and coats again, then?"

"Oh, yes."

"You sound just like Churchill the bulldog in the TV advertisement."

"Feck off."

So we did.

Me nerves...!

Herself leaves me a "note" like a contract drawn up by a particularly paranoid American lawyer, in which she suggests, (if I'm feeling up to it), I might, (for example), remove wet clothes from the washing machine and hang them in the specified place, or, (if the action mentioned in Section 1 is impossible), I could feed the cat (but only) if I go to the shop and buy either (a), wild red salmon, or, (b) sardines in vegetable oil (not tomato sauce), and, (assuming I have gone to the shop), a six-pack of lager and a large bottle of (sugar free) 7-Up.

At the bottom of the note it says: "P.T.O."

On the other side, in alternating red ink and blue ink, it continues with a suggestion that (if I was really feeling fit) I might (a), hang a rack of kitchen implements on the wall, (b), put the missing hardboard backs on the cupboards beneath the sink, and/or (c), put longer electrical flexes on the two side lamps.

While the cat is sucking up great gobs of wild, red salmon in the other room, I sit at the dining room table twiddling with electrical connections.

There is something bred into me about electricity that means that even though the whole project is entirely disconnected and not even remotely near an electrical outlet, I am still being extremely wary. I inspect the two-core cable critically, finding a little nick in the insulation which means I'll have to cut that piece off for safety and reconnect the lampholder. As I'm twisting the screw into the "Live" terminal, there's an unmerciful shrieking twin blast that rises me at least six inches out of the chair, scattering screwdrivers and screws and electrical cables everywhere.

I open my eyes and see the "New Message" symbol on my mobile phone, resting on the table.

It's a note from Herself.

"What's for dinner?" she asks.

Grumbling, I send back:

"What are you making?"

I turn back to the scattered bits and pieces, pick up the screwdriver and start attaching the "Neutral" wire. Five seconds later the phone shrieks twice and I nearly bite off the end of my tongue in fright.

I read the dinner menu suggestion and instructions as to where I can find the ingredients. I send off a terse "Alright."

My fingers drum on the table. Two more shrieks from the phone announce the inevitable:

"Are you okay?"

I'm switching off that bloody phone before I do anything else in this house.

Why the cat smells marmalade on my leg

I've a head-cold.
Herself has a dicky shoulder.
The weather has been Arctic cold.
This morning Herself knocked over one of our small, cheap, glass salt cellars and broke it into pieces. Bad luck was definitely supposed to follow.
As I'd been promising Herself we'd get one, we bought a small, flat-screen telly for the kitchen today and I couldn't get the thing to tune in until I disconnected all the cables from the grown-up telly and DVD and video player and the digital box and the PC and possibly the service for the whole road. But it tuned in, eventually.
In the meantime, Herself did everything possible to find jobs that would aggravate her sore shoulder.
"Aaargh!" She shouted from upstairs.
"What's wrong?"
"I'm washing the bathroom floor."
I watched the snow on the screen and pressed another button.
"Use the other arm," I said.
There were barely audible murmurings from somewhere upstairs.
There was a twanging, crashing noise from the landing.
"What was that?" I shouted up, as a fuzzy Irish rugby team made heavy work of defeating burly, blurry-blue Italians.
"Clothes horse," came the reply. "I'm putting clothes on the bannisters to dry."
"Use the other arm," I said. "By the way... Did you tell the doctor about that shoulder?"
"No."
"I see."
I fiddled with coaxial cable and started tacking staples into the side of the door saddle. The vacuum cleaner started up somewhere behind me.
"Aaaaaaaa-aaaaaaaaa-aaaaaaaaa-aargh!"
I stopped tapping, momentarily.
"What is it?"
"My shoulder! I can't finish the hoovering! It hurts!"
"Leave the hoovering then!"
"I can't!"
"Why not?"
"Because it's Saturday. I have to have the house clean on Saturday."
"Okay, I'll finish the hoovering later."
I tapped in some more staples, crawling about on the tiled floor, backing into the dining room and bumping against chairs and one hot radiator.
I hear another "Aaaargh!"
"What....?"
"I'm mopping the living room floor. The bucket is heavy and hurts my shoulder when I pick it up!"
"Use the other hand to pick it up then."
Sweat is dripping onto the floor as I pull cable along behind the radiator, twist it in behind the computer desk and twiddle it under the dining room door into the living room and the TV signal outlet box.
I say:
"Have you taken any anti-inflammatories?"
"No."
I plug in the plug and the picture tunes in on Herself's new early-morning putting-on-makeup-in-the-kitchen piece of telly technology.
I say:
"It's working."
Herself meets me in the kitchen and reaching for a glass of lemonade with her right hand -- the one that is attached to the arm that is swinging on the dodgy shoulder -- she knocks it all over the counter. She says something nasty and starts mopping up the spill.
I pass her the rolling pin. She's going to make a meat pie for dinner if it kills us both.
Opening a cupboard (with her right hand, the one that has the dodgy shoulder) she ducks as a half pot of marmalade sails out and falls to its death on the floor tiles below. Apart from the bits of glass glued together by the marmalade, the rest of it goes into a hundred little pieces that scatter all over the place. A large wodge of peel sticks to the side of my leg. We stand looking at it as it slowly slides down the cuff of my trousers, slithers down my boot and finally comes to rest.
"You know," I say. "It's been that kind of day, hasn't it?"
"Yes," she says, through gritted teeth.
Pastry gets a pounding with the occasional accompaniment of a loud
"Aaargh!"

As seen on TV

Now, you know I love Herself dearly, but there are times... Today I was tiling again. The floor of our porch needed some treatment so we decided on some tiles which we accidentally found in Woodies and which have now all gone down, cut bits and all, over the past two weekends. I need to grout them tomorrow. My knees are already complaining and I haven't even confirmed to them that the date with the hard floor is still on.

So I was working in my slippers today. I thought:

"If one of those tiles slips off the work bench and skewers your toe, it's your own fault, you know?"

No such skewering took place. I reassured myself that the lack of work boots was a minor bullet dodging event that I would not repeat. Next time, it's boots all the way. Anyhow, I now didn't have to look for my slippers. Sure, weren't they on my feet?

Herself arrived in from the shops, looking despondant.

"I only bought two new tablecloths, a decorative table for the porch, a new salad bowl and a bunch of stuff I'm not going to tell you about," she said, miserably. "There was nothing in the shops."

One of the soon-to-be-revealed items was a set of three LED lights for awkwards spots. You put in a load of batteries and give the thing a push and it lights up under your stairs or in your toolbox or in your pocket or anywhere else you need a light.

"One will do for when you want to adjust the gas boiler," Herself said.

I didn't doubt her, and after tidying up after my tile laying, folding up the work bench and putting it neatly, if temporarily, under the stairs, and putting aside a roasting tin from the oven which had mysteriously appeared in the way, I put in batteries and fumbled with self-adhesive strips in the semi-darkness by the boiler. Herself carried on cooking Saturday lunch.

There was a gut-wreching CLANG!

"Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!" I hinted, my head stuck under the stairs in an LED dazzle as the thing flew to bits and disappeared into a now well-lit hidey hole. The fact that the heating system was now clearly and visibly on 1.5 bar was of no comfort to me.

"What's wrong?" Herself asked from the kitchen.

"I'm crippled!" I roared.

"From what?" she asked, poking her head around the door.

"From this feckin' roasting tin!" I said, pointing. A second tin (not the one I had dilligently moved out of the way, of course), had been hung, by persons unknown, on the leg of my folded up workbench and had neatly guillotined the arch of my foot while I played silly buggers with the LED light. Oh, Jesus! It hurt!

From the kitchen came the sound of muffled giggling. I was not amused:

"Feck you and your LED lights! My bleedin' foot!"

I swear, the next time she brings home something that needs gutting, hanging, skinning, assembly, switching on or putting out... SHE CAN FECKIN' WELL DO IT HERSELF!

My poor foot...!

Back to work...

...and my back is playing silly buggers. My workmates diagnose Sciatica. As someone is always suffering some ailment, I don't doubt their collective opinion and it's saved me €60 at the doctor's anyhow. I spent last evening with a heat pack strapped to my arse and walked everywhere like Elvis in his 68 comeback special, but without the leather gear. The pain is gradually easing, thank you for asking.

Good things: I forgot that my Christmas pressie from my chums was stashed under my desk and when I found it again today and looked closely, it turned out to be a box full of beer.

As I said, the pain is now gradually easing.

I shall not hazard the chilli flavoured peanuts that accompanied the beer in case the lack of bowel control that I read on the Internet can be associated with severe Sciatica should kick in.

There is only so much speed I can muster with one good leg and the other trailing a half-step behind and I should not like to shite circles around myself on the way to the loo.

Herself is making small prayers in the hallway, taking down Christmas decorations. The place is starting to look bare.

If it is fine tomorrow, I may attempt to paint the doorsteps, which need a blackening. Thus far, we have not yet found suitable tiles for the floor of the new porch. I suggested a temporary linoleum and two days of ice and snow resulted.

Post Christmas Colours not all Blue

There are few things as colourful, post Christmas, than the local cemetery. That's where Herself and I ended up this afternoon to lay some Carnations in the vicinity of the Mammy's memorial and also to drop a few sneaky sweeties (no doubt she has a packet down the side of her celestial armchair).

There are rows of bright ribbons, green garlanded wreaths, bows, Santa Clauses, windmills, wind chimes, toys and flowers all over Newlands cemetery today as visitors remember their loved ones this Christmas season.

My mother's cremated remains are in a compartment in an eight-foot high wall part way into the cemetery. The lettering has weathered and I spoke with my father this evening about having it renewed, maybe with gold paint. I'll phone the cemetery people next week to ask how it can be arranged.

It brought a lump to the throat, visiting her again. I miss her, especially at this time of the year, which she enjoyed.

We then went on the hunt for some tiles for the new porch. I fancy something rust coloured or reddish, but the prevailing fashion appears to be for non-threatening biscuit. I can see the point.

We came across some dark brown tiles which might have done the trick. But the assistant (I wouldn't call him a "Salesman") pointed under the display to perhaps twenty individual tiles lying on a wooden pallet:

"Those are all there are of that pattern."

"And you have no more in stock?"

"No."

To be fair, he did show us some other tiles on display, none of which were to our tastes. As we left and went back to the car I said to Herself:

"A real Salesman would have persuaded me to buy the display and recycle the tiles on it..."

I suppose there wouldn't have been enough to finish the job anyway. I must look up some other tile outlets this evening before our next sortie into the retail world tomorrow.

Funnily enough, B&Q had no black masonry paint in stock. There were lots of bizarre colours: the types that youngsters in first-time mortgage apartments might paint their walls. There were a couple in their 20s going about the paint aisles arguing over whether or not they were going to repaint at all this season. He was saying that he'd pay for it himself. She was not impressed with the offer, so I guess whatever it was that needed painting she had chosen the original colour.

We looked at CCTV options. There are ones which look like ordinary spyholes in the front door but which are really cameras. Ditto ones which look like ornamental outdoor lamps. The spyhole options start from around €20, which seems cheap and possibly unreliable. But in true B&Q style, it seems that the cheap bit is followed by the also cheap bit cable, connected with the slightly-more-expensive black box bit, connected with the slightly more expensive other black box, and so on and so on until the debit card is slightly melted.

Off to Woodies tomorrow to buy black masonry paint. And an extendable pole to hang Christmas lights which I am going to adapt to window cleaning.

You can do it....

"Excuse me."
"And then she said... Oh hang on... Yes, sir?"
"Do you have any of the fixings for hanging this moudling on a cabinet?"
"You want a moulding for a cabinet? This type here is it?"
"No, thank you. It's just the fixing. Look underneath on the built one."
"Hmmm."
"See the little yokes with the screws in them?"
"John, do we have fixings for this moulding?"
"Which moulding?"
"This one. Look underneath..."
"No."
"John says we don't have any."
"You have none, then?"
"They'll be in next week."
"They will?"
"Yes."
"Do you have any of the items on my trolley?"
"No. We've never sold them. Look, here on the stock list."
"Even the ones with your logo on them, that I just took off the shelf a minute ago?"
"Sorry, no. Never had them."
"Where can I pay for these things you don't sell then?"
"I'll direct you to the check out. We accept cash or Laser."
"Thanks for your help."
"So, anyway... She said...."

Furniture, DIY, Skip bags and bulbs

I've not been online much recently for various reasons, chief among them being exhaustion. Herself has moved to a new job, which has upscuttled our household routine. I am truely commuting now -- a bus each way, instead of the cushy lift each morning, followed by a bus ride home in the evening -- as she is now working in a place which is in the opposite direction to my morning travel.

Morning travellers are a different lot to the evening varieties I have encountered up to now. And the earlier buses have a few surprises as to routes and to the temper of the bus drivers.

"Do you go to the hospital?" a woman asked from a bus stop, stepping up to the driver.
"No," he said.
The woman stepped back down off the bus and awaited the next double decker.

I thought this one over and decided that the driver was giving a very literal answer to her query. No, the bus didn't go to the hospital. Rather it went to The Square, and the hospital was on the route. So while he was being absolutely truthful, he was not being customer friendly. There is a bus stop right outside the hospital gate he could have dropped the woman at.

The past couple of weeks have been eventful in the search for and acquisition of new furniture for the house. A much hated 1970s dining-room unit, the type that holds drinks glasses and had a little cubby hole for bottles of booze, was remaindered. I quite liked it, but Herself said it had to go. We acquired the mammy and daddy of all dining-room tables and a platoon of leather dining-room chairs to go with it. And some matching -- or nearly matching -- smaller units to store the glasses and ornaments in. We shall not be ashamed of our Christmas dinner settings at least.

I have also been trying to complete the kitchen project, which at this stage requires only some final positioning of some units, a swap of two applicances, and the installation of kicker boards (plinths), and some fiddly bits. B&Q has been unusually unhelpful and I haven't helped myself much either. I phoned the Tallaght store and was told that only two of the four items I need are in stock there. The sprout on the phone told me that they didn't sell one of the missing items, even though I had seen it with my own eyes only a few weeks before.

The problem is the length of the last few timbers, which are not convenient to carry by car. I will have to get them ordered and delivered.

The Liffey Valley branch is under major refurbishment at the moment and their kitchen showroom staff are languishing in a large temporary building in the car park. I phoned two weeks ago and the girl on the switchboard was able to confirm that yes, they did have Item 1 and Item 2 in stock, but by Item 3 she was obviously being distacted by the flashing lights on the phone, and when she said:

"Yes we probably have that,"

at Item 4, I was not confident that she was giving me her fullest attention. She took my phone number and said that the kitchen showroom staff would phone me back to address my queries. No call was ever received.

We drove over to the store later that day in a particularly wintery rainstorm and were told by an assistant that:

1. Items 1 and 2 were in stock.
2. Items 3 and 4 were not in stock.
3. Deliveries are made only on Thursdays.
4. No, I could not buy the items in advance, as they were not in stock, but they would be in stock this week, at which stage I could buy them.

I phoned again yesterday to see if they had come in. The girl on the switch warned me that they were "very busy" in the kitchen showroom and may not be answering their phone. However, the phone was picked up. I quoted the barcode numbers of the four items, whereupon the assistant asked me for my mobile phone number as it would take five minutes to look them up and confirm they were available.

"Ah."

I don't know my mobile phone number. Nor does there appear to be a method on my current phone of looking it up while one is on a call. I forgot that I had Herself's phone in my pocket, which contained my mobile phone number in its Contacts list. So I said I would phone back.

When I did, no-one answered at the switch. Ever.

So, it looks like another drive over to Liffey Valley is required. But not this weekend, which has now all but passed. I shall try again next weekend. Wish me luck.

Meanwhile, I have availed of an A1 Waste free skip bag offer and filled a big yellow container with broken up kitchen units and other stuff we have been accumulating in our garden since the never-ending kitchen project and the never-ending preparations for Christmas have begun. I moved about a tonne of plywood and chipboard today and planted around 50 or so daffodil bulbs that had not made it into the ground before now. I containerised them, which is to say I stuffed them into pots and hoped for the best. Herself says they are not house-broken, so I can't experiment with forcing some of them to bloom in time for Christmas. They are outside as I type, possibly wondering what the drop in temperature is all about, since they were rather inadvisedly being stored in a heated cupboards for the past month.

Busy, busy, busy.

Chemical warfare and the art of Tippexing houses

"Mould," I say.
"What about it?"
"Don't you think the back bathroom wall is looking a little.... Well.... furry?"
It's true, our houses on this road are woefully inadequately ventilated. If a budgerigar breathes heavily the vapour condenses on a wall or a ceiling and mould starts to prosper there.
I was at a party in a neighbour's house some years back and as I stood in the bathroom in a slightly sozzled but increasingly relieved state, I mildly thought how funky it was for them to paint the bathroom ceiling black. Then I realised it wasn't paint, but the inevitable consequence of bad ventilation, poor landlord interest and two devil-may care tenants who loved taking showers with the windows and doors closed. The ceiling was a mould Amazon. I'll never forget it.
Today, therefore, I stood in an aisle of Dunnes Stores looking for a cleaning product that was unashamedly toxic to all living organisms and which would probably come in a pink or yellow bottle with "Pow!", "Boom!", or "Splat!" printed on it. I chose one that had the words "Mould" and "Kill" in equally-sized letters. The shop assistant put it through the scanner using a pair of tongs. It seemed just what I needed.
At home the instructions mentioned protective gear. I had skin for that. They also said to spray on the surface from a distance of no less than 20 centimetres and to leave on for no more than 2-3 minutes. I took the safety off and rattled off a burst at the enemy.
A small colony of black mould began to turn pale right before my eyes. I dabbed at the spot with a cloth and it swished off into oblivion. Great stuff!
Now feeling less unsure, I doused the back wall good-o with two or three bursts in quick succession. Colourless liquid ran down the wall, leaving barreness behind it. I started to whistle a happy little tune.
I was down at the skirting board, poking at a stubborn strip of black, when I realised how much lighter the room was. The evening autumnal rays were filtering in through the two windows in a very pleasant manner. I rinsed the last of the lower wall then stopped to count the windows. We only had one this morning. Where had the other one come from?
Yes, the mould is gone, though I suppose it might come back. We now also have a new roughly circular window behind the jacks that wasn't there before. It will let out the steam tomorrow, but it will be the devil to get a window-frame for, whatever about glass. I suppose I either rubbed too hard or strayed closer than the recommended 20 cm limit. Or was it the 3 minute limit? Ah well. Accidents happen. Right?

DIY : Some during and more during pics

So, the kitchen has basically gone from.... this stage... and this stage....:

To something a little beyond THIS STAGE:

Whipped

"Now," Herself says. "Don't get mad when I say this. But..."
I am lying on my back on the tiled floor of the kitchen, staring wildly at the ceiling.
I have not washed any part of my anatomy in, we think, three weeks.
It is possible I have not spoken with anyone other than a cat in a month.
My hands are claws into which only some of the simplest, most primitive tools with which one hits something very hard fit.
I have sweated 321 litres of water.
I have wrapped my belt three times around my waist.
I have eaten only some crumbs from an upended toaster found in the cupboard beneath the oven.
I am blind.
I am repeating to myself, over and over: "Make it work. Make it work. Make it work."
She says:
"The door of the cabinet is on crooked. It is obviously higher on the right-hand side than on the left."
I whimper.
My eyebrow, over my left eye, begins to twitch uncontrollably.
And yet I find myself on hands and knees with screwdriver in hand adjusting the screws of the hinges of the cabinet door.
My knees shall probably never work properly again.
My spleen has given up excreting whatever substance a spleen is made to excrete.
"Make it work," I mutter.
"Make it work."

Number games and dragging knuckles home

Yesterday was a fine day for walking short distances, so I naturally chose to walk a fairly long one. I thought brownie points would surely be in the offing if I bought the correct drill bit to make those round holes for hinges on non-standard cupboard doors and if the end result was another door in the integrated kitchen... this time a door on the washing machine. I was right on the idea of the brownie points, but boy was I dog tired when I finally got home the long way via the DIY store.

"One!" somebody shouted up above in the building site which is the Arena by the Tower Hotel in Tallaght.

"Two!" someone shouted back.

"Three!"
"Four!"
"Five"
"Six!"
"Seven!"

I have no idea what was going on, but the two gurriers walking in front of me did what any self-respecting mischief-maker would do in the circumstances: one of them shouted:

"Eight!"

"What?" came the reply from Number One.

"Eight!" shouted the gurrier pretending to be walking lamely along on the crutches. Answering calls came from Numbers Two to Seven until the whole lot were in a babble of constructional confusion somewhere in the lofty heights of the partly-glazed building. Finally, someone shouted:

"One!"

and the whole lot of them resumed their collective task. Whatever it was.

On the new Firhouse Road I was struggling. It was a hot day anyway, but walking the type of road that has no bloody turning is bad at the best of times. I had pictures in my head of walking from town in the days when the last bus left at 11.00pm and the beer was still unfinished. Then that long road by the Spawell, which one hit just as the three-hour walking fatigue was setting in, looked endless.

When I flumphed into the driveway the black cat flattened himself on the top of the wall and looked at me with inky black eyes. I couldn't be bothered. He only recognises me if I follow his rules and I was not in any humour to play.

The door fitted well in the wind up. I suppose the mere stiffness in my legs this morning can be credited to crawling about on hands and knees on a kitchen floor looking for dropped screws: one way of coming down gently from exercise. This morning I was a pound and a half down. It occurs to me that if I wish to avoid the diet pills now, then the only way to lose weight is to exercise along that kind of scale. Bugger that. I gladly accepted a lift from a workmate today.

What to do and why to worry anyway?

I'm off to bed.

Goodnight.

I hate plumbing

As the keyboard floats by again on its circuit through the dining room on its way to the sink hole in the kitchen floor, I have just a few moments to record for you the fact that I hate... no despise... plumbing in all its forms.

That is not in any way to denigrate that portion of people who have dedicated their lives to the pursuit of professional pumbing, of course. I have grown in admiration of these folk. I am speaking only personally and from my very limited but, unfortunately, most recent DIY experience.

I have quite literally been baptised in the mysteries of tube cutting, compression joints, non-organic olives and faulty stop cocks over the last few days. I have found that I could not cut a piece of pipe straight if my life was to depend upon it. I have wrestled with brass fittings and adjustable wrenches, stubborn copper pipes and infuriating bends and angles. I have literally been thrown in at the deep end.

As the lapping around my ankles grows more insistent and I really should be thinking of carrying the television up the stairs, I should like to give you my few DIY tips and observations for home plumbing while I can still think of them. They are:

1. You can never have too many lengths of copper pipe. The first time you bend one into a facsimile of a novelty drinking straw by accident you will know this fact is true.


2. You will always attract helpful people while sawing copper pipe in the back of your car at the local DIY store. When I say "Helpful", I mean "trying to be helpful." The first man who grabbed the end of the pipe and held it as I was sawing it so that we might close the boot was indeed quite helpful. If he'd stuck around until I sawed the ends off the other two lengths of pipe, it would have been even more helpful. "Bend it," was the advice of the second helpful passerby. He proceeded to throw his purchases into the boot and bend the last foot of the second pipe I was sawing to demonstrate how useful his advice was. Quite apart from being left with a pipe whose last few inches were bent into uselessness, I was then unexpectedly involved in sifting through the purchases which were mine and the purchases which were his. He left, contentedly, with (I think) only his own goods. Herself stubbed out her ciggy and got out of the driver's seat to hold the final piece of pipe. I don't think I could have benefited from a third plumbing Samaratin. "Swallow it," he might have said. And by that stage I might have tried.


3. Never trust a compression joint, nor written advice on how to make one. I took to heart the article which off-handedly advised one not to turn the nut too far as this might flatten the pipe and spent two days fixing leaks while awaiting disaster if the wrench actually tightened anything.


4. Metric and Imperial measure aren't the same. Witness my fancy taps and the Frankenstein's laboratory in the cupboard beneath the sink.


5. Cheap and cheerful waste kits are neither cheap nor do they lead to much cheer. You should find a big bag of O-rings and keep them handy. The ones which come with the kit are made of regurgitated winegums dipped in starch.

Tomorrow, if I can lasso it as it circles the paired animals on the slowly sinking chipboard ark, I shall install the dishwashing machine. I am so looking forward to it already.

Holiday how are ya?

I'm coughing up sawdust tonight following a marathon session of cabinet building, drilling, jig-sawing and the divil knows what in the name of getting the never-ending kitchen project finally finished.

Tomorrow, I plan on some waste pipe installation to go with our new sink-and-a-half set-up, then demolition of the last hanging on part of the original sink and pipework.

My drill is starting to show signs of wear and tear to match my unhappy lungs.

It is looking promising though.

B&Q Gazebo instructions

Quite a few visitors have been finding the Blog by searching for "B&Q Gazebo instructions", so I thought I would post the actual instructions for erecting the gazebo here. I hope they are of help to you.

These instructions are for the "Deluxe Gazebo" which comes in either green or in cream. As mine has been put up and taken down a few times, the parts do not look like new and you'll see an odd scrape or piece of rust in my pictures that shouldn't be on your new parts.

You need to do this assembly out on the lawn, unless you have a cavernous dwelling. I know that sounds like the warnings on the barbeques not to use them indoors. But this model gazebo covers a surprisingly large area. The gazebo can be assembled by one person. But it is better if a second person helps. In addition to the parts which came in the box, I recommend having some low-tac sellotape or masking tape handy.

1. Open the box and sort out the poles.
The roof bars (or rafters, if you prefer) and legs are made of tubular mild steel and when first packaged come in coloured bags so that you can easily select the correct one for assembly. If you are like me, however, over time you will probably lose the bags, or stuff everything into one bag, mix them up, or generally succumb to human nature and not bother to sort out the pieces before you store the disassembled gazebo for the winter.

When bought new, the poles are also number coded. Look for a sticker on one end with a number printed on it. If you can't find a sticker, think of them as "thin", "fat", and "fat with holes"...!

The poles are numbered 1, 1A, 2, 2A, 3 & 4. Sort them into numbered piles.

1 = A thin pole with a socket on each end (or two "female" ends). It looks like a plain pipe at first glance.

1A = A thin pole with a plug, or "male" end and a socket, or "female" end. It looks like a pipe that has been narrrowed on one end. The majority of the pipe is the same diameter as Part 1.

2 = A fat pole with a socket, or "female" on each end. It is a bigger-diameter version of Part 1.

2A = A fat pole with a "male" end on each end of the pipe. It is the only type of pipe with this configuration.

3 = a fat pole with a "male" end and a "female" end, a bigger diameter verson of Part 1A.

4 = A fat pole with a number of holes drilled near one end. It has two "female" ends.

2. Locate the four, plastic corners.
You should find four plastic parts which look like these. These are the parts with the sockets into which the roof bars fit before they are joined into the tops of the legs. You will notice that three of the sockets in each piece are narrow diameter. One of the sockets in each piece is a larger diameter.

You should note that in all cases, the "female" end of the poles are put into these plastic sockets.

If you turn these parts over, you will see that three of the sockets are embossed with the numbers "2", "1" & "2".

3. Assemble the roof struts: Take one of the plastic, corner pieces and put one of the Part 2 bars into the socket embossed with a matching number 2. Give it a little twist to make sure it is solidly home. Insert one of the Part 1 bars into the socket marked with the number 1. Finally place the next Part 2 bar into the socket marked with a number 2. Leave the larger socket empty for the moment. The result looks like this.

Next, insert a 2A pipe into the end of the Part 2 pipe that you earlier attached to the corner. The idea is to lengthen the pipes to double their previous length. Repeat for the other Part 2 pipe. Insert a 1A pipe into the Part 1 pipe. The result looks like the picture to the left.

Go to one of the 2A partially assembled pipes lying on the ground and add a Part 2 pipe to it. You should now have three pipes joining together to form one side of a square. You have now completed one side of the square of which a side of the gazebo is made.

Add a plastic corner socket piece to the end of the Part 2 pipe you just added, ensuring you are placing the pipe into the socket marked "2".

The result is the image, (right).

Continue adding pipes around the perimeter of the square, joining them at the corners with the corner pieces. Only when the surrounding square has been assembled should you add the final three Part 1 and Part 1A poles.

All eight Part 1 and Part 1A poles will point towards the place where the central hub, or apex of the roof, will be. Add this last of all. Making sure each pole is tightly home in the hub, place a little sellotape around the socket to hold it in place. Move down to each of the joints between the poles and wrap a little tape around these as well. The poles tend to come loose as the framework is moved or lifted, and it is easier to tape the joints now rather than when the it has risen into the air and a pole has popped out.

Hub/Apex piece
You should now have a reasonably secure pyramid like the photo.

4. Put on the legs: The legs are made up of the Part 3 poles joined to the Part 4 poles. However, it is handiest if you just pop the Part 3 poles into their plastic corner sockets for now and leave the Part 4 poles aside for the moment. Note that the Part 3 poles should stand with the male part facing down.

With the Part 3 poles in place, you should now see a skeletal gazebo standing on four short legs. It is time to put the polyester cover over the skeleton!

5. Put on the polyester cover: Take the cover out of its bag and unwrap it. It looks like a large square with four long tails on each corner. At this stage, this large square needs to go on top of the framework and the long tail-pieces need to dangle down at each corner.

Lightly drape the cover on one side of your square, ensuring that the D-rings from which the guy wires are tied are located roughly at the corners of the side of the square you are working from. Now duck inside the framework and pull the cover over your head until the square ventilation piece is over the apex of the rafter poles. Be careful when pulling the cover, because it has trailing ropes and some metal parts. Don't hit yourself in the face or eyes.

Pull the cover tight so that each D-ring comes to rest at each corner. In pulling the cover tight, the framework underneath becomes more rigid. Your cover should now lose most of its creases. On the underside, tie the cover to the horizontal bars using the velcro strips sewn there.

Next, add the final Part 4 poles to the Part 3 poles, ensuring that the ends with the drilled holes in each Part 4 rests on the ground. You may tilt the gazebo over to insert the poles. It's a good idea to do this with another person standing by, as the legs may drop out again as you work around the gazebo. Fit the four plastic feet to the bottom of the Part 4 poles.

Each of the long, trailing parts of the polyester cover has a metal hook and another D-ring. The metal hook is used to anchor the cover tightly to the bottom of each leg. You should also use the D-ring to anchor the cover to the foot. The foot has four plastic hooks on it for this purpose. Remember too to use the velcro strips on the inside of the cover to join the trailing ends to the vertical poles of the legs.

Use the mild steel stay-pins included in the pack to anchor the gazebo to the ground by its guy wires. Also anchor each foot to the ground in the same way. Your gazebo is now completed.

6. Optional Siding: B&Q also sells siding for gazebos. You should choose the correct type of siding to match the model gazebo you own. The siding is simply added to the horizontal bars like a shower curtain, hanging from plastic hooks provided, and secured to the vertical poles using velco strips. One of the sides has plastic windows to allow in light. The image shows two sides fitted, one of which has windows.

Well, that's it! If you have and questions or comments, please add them in the Comments section.

Pass me the Gazebo, missus

A little bit of sunshine has ensued and it hasn't rained much to speak of on the east coast for the past week or so. The Home section of Dunnes Stores is playing a blinder selling garden furniture, barbeques and gazebos. I could see burly husbands marching boxes of them out to parked cars in The Square yesterday. The wives were following up with shopping trolleys laden with bedding plants.

Our B&Q gazebo was unpacked from winter hibernation this morning. My father, who had called to show me his shiny new seven-year-old car, watched as I poked lightweight metal tubes together and made the magic of the summertime appear amidst bags of recycling drinks tins and plastic bottles which is our back garden.

The black cat put in an astonished appearance only briefly. Although he is becoming less wary of visitors if they are in the back garden (more room for him to escape if they should turn on him) he is still unhappy to see old men. The old man next door has had reason enough to chase our cats out of his shed in the past which I think is the source of Black Cat's phobia.

A note left on the counter this morning reads:

"If you have time, could you clean the litter trays?"

My work is cut out for me. At least I shall have a gazabo to relax in later today. I also have a new gas-fired barbeque, so if you hear sirens and see flashing blue lights this afternoon, you'll know what's happened.

No work til Monday.

Related Post: B&Q Gazebo instructions

Bank Holiday Monday

"Arrgh! I've lost the television channel!" Herself shouts from the other room.
I have pulled up the chair to the computer table and am about to surf my handful of regularly-frequented sites on the Interweb.
"What?" I say, turning down Europe, playing "The Final Countdown", in glorious 80s rock-god stylee on the PC's disk drive.
"Hurry up! I've lost the channel and yer woman is about to take away Jason's baby on Corrie!"
"What does it say on screen?"
"AV something!"
"Press the button below the green button."
"That's on the other remote! I'm using the video remote!"
Herself prefers the volume controls on the video remote. Grand until you press the wrong button. I give up on heading for Venus and go in and grab a couple of remote controls to find UTV.
I've just spent my Bank Holiday Monday with my head in a larder cabinet. I started it on Easter Saturday, which God proceeded to punish me for by making absolutely everything that could go wrong... well.... go wrong. Dowels miraculously became unattached. Cabinet sides flopped apart and fixings pulled themselves and large sections of chipboard asunder. I cursed like Job in the worst of his scabbiness. Finally, I gave up in the hope of having a better head for the work another day. It didn't happen that way. Instead, though I fixed the problems that arose on Friday, the new iron mongery of the gizzard of the larder itself -- imported especially from England and delivered at 9.00 am on Saturday morning by two burly, good humoured bald men, one of whom declared that I was not the WillieW he had one time worked with -- proved a hazard to my mental health. If a bracket could go on upside down, I put it on upside down. If a runner could be inside out, it was inside out. And if a screw could avoid the head of a screwdriver and fall into the guts of the galvanised machine works it did. But I persevered. The work should take two hours, not two days, but it's done. Tomorrow I shall add doors (also ordered from England), go on the bus for door handles, then leave the kitchen project for a while until our money reserves are built up a bit to buy more parts.
I have to say it's starting to look like a modern kitchen now, and not just a haphazard DIY project.
Interestingly, the CD is now playing "Bed of Nails" by Alice Cooper. I ain't that far gone just yet, thanks.

Checklist for building a kitchen cupboard

Go to work. Check.
Go to meeting. Check.
Leave work at 12.30pm. Check.
Visit Veterinary Surgery before 1.00pm. Check.
Wait for bus. Check.
Listen to Thump! as arse hits ground having actually frozen off. Check.
Get home late because of bloody buses. Check.
Visit blogs on PC. Check.
Make tea. Check.
Drink tea and eat slice rhubarb pie. Check.
Chase ginger cat out of garden with broom. Check.
Spend 15 minutes in bathroom. Check.
Say Hello to cat in bedroom. Check.
Change out of work clothes. Check.
Bang head on staircase looking for boots. Check.
Open flatpack and follow instructions. Check.

Easy.

Honesty best policy

Probably because I have spent so much time tapping away on keyboards and pressing buttons on computer screens "Just to see what happens", I tend to have a bit more confidence when it comes to fixing problems found on PCs in the office. This has translated into the dreaded "Computer Whizz" title, which is not deserved. I try to tell people they can do the same if they just use the Force. But they still come looking for help.

"Can you fix our projector?" I am asked.
"I'll take a look. What's its problem?"
"I can't get the remote to advance the pages in my presentation."

So I end up in an office with a 1,000,000 watt projector lamp shining on a wall where the paint is beginning to peel in the heat, poking at buttons on a remote control not unlike the one I use every night to watch my digital TV channels.

"Do you have the manual?" I ask.

A single printed page with labels pointing at a photo of the remote is produced. The labels say much the same thing as the labels already physically printed on the buttons of the remote control. The "OK" button is labelled "OK button", and so on.

"I haven't got a clue what's wrong," I say.

There is an audible intake of breath. Someone drops a teacup heavily onto the floor. I'm asked:

"You mean to tell me you don't know how to fix it...?"

"Absolutely not. Goodbye and good luck."

Yesterday I was asked how to remove Comments from a Word document. You know the type that the boss likes to add to a report that needs editing.

"Haven't got a baldy clue. Never used them before. Try the View menu, or something."

Then, to complete the hattrick of woe, someone asked me:

"I've lost the controls on the bottom of my spreadsheet. Can you get it back?"

I pressed the Maxmise button on the window and the controls re-appeared.

My reputation for perfection restored, I scurried back to my own office and basked in the beautiful music of the renewed songs of praise that echoed around the building in wonderful harmonies.