One in – ready for the next.
I spent most of the past weekend perched on our roof, to the disgust of many local birds, and the curiosity of our local tribe of monkeys. Recent rainstorms have resulted in a dire need to place various buckets in strategic spots, and some investigation revealed that the fault lies (literally) in valley irons which have corroded into being more holey than righteous.
The threat of another cold front being forwarded by our dear friends at the Cape of Storms galvanised (giggle) me into action, and I ordered seven valley strips which were received late on Friday. Then I commenced the happy process of removing and replacing, in all, some 200 tiles.
It took quite a lot of bleeding from metal cuts and squashed fingers before I registered that it would be a good idea to wear gloves. It took some very sore cheekbones (nether side) for me to realise that it would be a good idea to sit on a dog cushion rather than on tiles with all their sticky-outy bits. It took some changing to a tasteful shade of scarlet before I thought of grabbing a cowboy-style hat.
After adopting these accessories the job went rather better, but with limbs cramped in various ways, and lifting and juggling rows so as to wangle out the tile being removed/replaced, and clambering up and down ladders, it all contributed to my muscles wanting to know what the heck I thought I was playing at and strenuously protesting at such strenuous abuse.
There is quite an art in where and how one lifts a set of tiles so as to release and remove one of them, and how best to set it up for replacement. Refitting requires a sort of sliding wiggle, and then to lift the lip at the crucial moment to fit over the batten. Sitting on a tile which is part of the set which one is trying to lift is not a recommended exercise.
There were some consolations: a hang-glider was cruising up and down (haven’t seen one of those for ages) and some whales were doing their thing fairly far out.
Anyway, as the sun sank into the west on Sunday, the last tile was replaced and I could retreat to a hot shower and a few gallons of wine. Now, we await the next deluge. Should any of its offerings again trespass inside, my howls and wails will be audible in Outer Mongolia.
© Colonialist August 2012 (WordPress/Letterdash)