Listening to: Guitar Man (Elvis Presley)
Getting ready to: go to the pub
Surf: 3ft cleanish
Birds: hen harrier, lapwing, curlew, oyster catcher, shag, bar-tailed godwit
I had a cartoon moment today. We've just taken delivery of an electric cement mixer and I was dead excited about it (funny what rings your bell as you get older - used to be cup finals, gigs and dates with attractive women, now. . . ).
The mixer came in a very large cardboard box with the dreaded set of instructions for assembly.
I can never decide which is worse. There are the instructions with pictures of parts you can't find and lots of arrows pointing vaguely in the direction of places that may or may not exist. Or there are the written instructions with a combination of complicated names designed especially to confuse those of us who call everything 'a thingy' and a dodgy translation from Latvian.
This was a series of pictures and, once I had overcome my initial fears, it proved to be quite easy. I'd got the wheels on, the stand had been put together, the drum was in place and all I needed to do was to slot the handle into the frame. It slid in nicely, but was a tight enough fit to get stuck just short of where the holes for the bolts lined up.
I decided a couple of gentle taps with a heavyish hammer would do the trick and the lefthand side clicked in perfectly. I lined up the righthand side, but failed to notice a stray thumb.
Bloody hell, it hurt. . . and don't thumbs bleed a lot? I swore once, took several deep breaths and examined the damage, deciding a plaster or four might be a good idea.
The Boy, who arrived yesterday for a two-week "holiday", was kind enough not to laugh, although he did call me a "big girl's blouse" when I had to ask Mrs TPF to put the plasters on for me. I haven't told him who's mixing the concrete yet.