I have a backyard deck which needs some love and attention and needs sanding down before being cleaned and oiled.
Coates, the first store I enquire about hiring a sander does not have any available but helpfully recommends a couple of other places.
The next store has one available on Saturday at 11am.
At 10am I receive a call from said store.* ‘G’day it’s Len. Sorry we’ve had to hire your sander out to someone else’.
‘Why? say I panic rising ever so slightly in my head.
‘Well the sander we hired him originally is faulty so yours was the only one left. There’ll be another one coming in at 3.30. We’ll call you the minute it arrives in the store. Hopefully it’ll be back sooner’.
Fine. Fan-fairy-tastic as my daughter would say. My day of being covered in sawdust is slowly fading to dust, so to speak. I busy myself with taking Miss BG to ballet rehearsal, a quick visit to the Farmer’s Market, getting the lawn mowed, laundry, lunch, raking stuff and generally bitching about hardware stores and people in general.
At 4.00pm I receive a phone call to come on down, the sander has arrived. I arrive with Miss BG at 4.05. I comfort Miss BG after she walks inyo a counter corner and hits herself in the forehead. The hiring guy, Steve is located. He tests the sander. All seems right, but he thinks something is amiss. Len comes over to have a look…’Nah, the arm lever should be staying up. Bernard would have known what to do.’
The sander is upended and and its underside poked. Bernard is mentioned several times, to the point I want to a) throttle Len and his useless advice and b) find this mythical Bernard and get him to fix the fucking sander. Instead I opt for option c) buy a smaller sander to get started on the job.
I arrive at home at 5pm with a sander, Miss BG has a sausage from the sausage sizzle. Mr BG kindly prepares tea and I sit, nursing a G & T.
No sanding is done.
*all conversations are somewhat truncatd owing to memory lapses caused by stress and rage.