A young man's passage

This East wind blowing up my kilt is a bit of a shock. Ne'er cast a clout, and all that.

I have just finished one of the crap jobs which I took on in desperation during the Winter. The very first day, the compressor I had borrowed blew a gasket, so I have knocked out all the old stone by hand. Once I had put my head into the mindset, it was surprising how it all came back to me. I would not say that using a mallet and chisel all day was effortless, but my arm did not get tired at all. Muscles have a long memory, it seems. If I had a penny for every blow of a mallet I have made during my life, I would be a seriously wealthy man.

My twisted hands and lumpy fingers also held up very well. I discovered that I have not lost my 'mason's grip' when I picked up quite large blocks of stone with one hand and walked a distance with them. I need to use gloves more that I used to, because even slight pressure in certain areas causes quite bad pain.

I took to wearing safety glasses too, but not before one of the many chips of stone flew out and into my left eye. That eye now resembles Christopher Lee's in the role he was best known for.

I have not been to a pub for about 2 weeks, which is just as well. Two of my 70+ year-old friends who I usually sit and talk with caught Covid from each other last Thursday. I know who caught it from whom. One of them is one of those people who cannot talk without spitting at you. What makes it worse is that he rolls his 'P's if that makes sense to you. Pppppandemic. I avoided him before the plague, not just like it.

So I drive back into town, find a parking place then sit in the car for up to an hour, covertly observing the local talent. If I have any green tea left in the flask, I pour myself a cup as I observe.

When my workshop was in town and I was of an age to take advantage of the local talent, the world used to come to me. I have lost track of the famous people who visited me there, but I remember a few. Garry Glitter, Keith Flint, Paul Theroux, Sade, Barbara Streisand, Prince Charles - they all got down and dusty with me in the old builder's yard stable.

I whitewashed the walls one year, but I left the patch on which was written - in pencil - the name of the horse and the dates of the fitting of his new shoes. I seem to remember 1923 was the last visit from the farrier. The transition between horses and horseless carriages was a gradual one.

Some things do not change with time though - the traditional tools to work stone. In the entrance hall of the Grand Lodge in Great Queen Street there is a small display case containing a wooden mallet from Egypt which is over 3000 years old. It is pretty much the same thing as the one I have been using for the last 40.

I pinched the title of this post from Julian Clary's autobiography.