My mate hard at work. I’d say I was too but it’s a little obvious what I’m doing at this point.

I love my job.

I didn’t realize how much I love my job until today. You know whose job I’d hate? Pretty much any tradie’s.

Today I put in eleven hours on my balcony with a mate prepping it for re-staining tomorrow. Here are several ways in which prepping my balcony differs from my day job:

  • I got straight out of bed when my mate showed up and got straight to work. I didn’t shave or anything.  In fact it was 3pm before I realized I was still in my pj’s.
  • My mate showed up at 7am, so I started work nearly 2 hours early.
  • There was no airconditioning, meaning the temperature varied from a comfortable 26 degrees. What sort of fresh anarchy is this? It was very off-putting and earthy. As a result I think I sweated.
  • I hardly talked all day because there were no customers to banter with, and anyway the pressure cleaners were too loud to talk over.
  • When my legs got tired I couldn’t pull up a chair.
  • I did the same monotonous thing over and over for hours on end, and when that ended I did some other monotonous thing over and over for hours on end.
  • Instead of eating something and then reading a book for half an hour, at lunch we ate and then got straight back to work. I’m now a chapter behind. This bugged me all afternoon.
  • After eight hours of work, I didn’t stop, pack everything up and go home – I was home and kept working until the job was done.
  • I got wet. I may chaf.
  • I didn’t get paid (neither did my mate, so he probably has more to whinge about on this score)
  • There was no telly in the foyer for me to watch.
  • Coffee was almost entirely absent from my day, except for the two cups I had first thing this morning and the one my mum showed up with to spur me on. Almost a totally coffee free day!
  • I wasn’t working with women – I like working with women because they rarely discuss sport, which bores me to tears, and often discuss their sex lives, which I find far more interesting.
  • Tracey let me play with my hammer.
As part of the preparation for tomorrow’s fresh coats of stain, I re-nailed all the floorboards (by re-nailing I mean I hammered in any nails which were protruding, not removed existing nails and hammered in new ones – this might have been obvious to you, but I only speak banker so I’m unfamiliar with the correct tradie speak). This meant I needed my hammer, which Tracey has taken to hiding, along with my other tools, so I can’t destroy our home.
Exhibit A. This is why I’m not allowed tools. Bottom hole is from when I incorrectly
measured (didn’t measure) to hang a picture. Middle hole is second attempt. Top is final
attempt, which I got correct, and therefore has the screw triumphantly poking out.
 Incidently, the picture is hanging on the OTHER side of this wall.
“Tracey,” I beamed at her as I entered the kitchen, “I need my hammer.”
“I’m re-hammering the nails before we re-stain the boards.”
“Do you have to?”
“I don’t have to do any of this. I can sit on the lounge and watch Groundhog Day again if you like.”
“Go outside and I’ll get it. No peeking!”
The excitement of being reunited with my hammer quickly lost it’s shininess when I started getting a blister – that’s another thing I don’t have to deal with as a banker (although I do endure the occasional paper cuts fyi they hurt).
At six tonight it was all done and ready. After a lovely Radox bath with my kindle I’m feeling relaxed and sore and dreading tomorrow.
You women out there with tradie husbands – you aren’t appreciative enough. Even if you think you are, you aren’t. Their jobs suck. They deserve massages and beer and adoring looks. And Radox baths.
Weekends like this really make me appreciate my bank work. Time for a beer I think. If only I could walk to the fridge.
This is one side of our balcony. It’s 100 sqm and nearly as big as
the house. And it’s not the old big deck, small dick. Okay?!


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