Sad Times

I have blogged before about being the black sheep of my mother’s side of the family. Where others have done balet and tap and gone on to learn modern jazz, singing, art and acting, I ride bikes, fix cars and play in the dirt.

It was the shock of the year – and what a shocking year. My dad phoned to tell me that Uncle Terry had died. Not a gentle, something we’ve been waiting to tell you kind of died but an urgent, breaking news, nothing we can do kind of died. There was nothing to know, no answers, no explanation, no illness or discomfort, just gone.

The story unfolded at some traffic lights in town. The girls in the hairdressers noticed that one of the cars in the line didn’t move. He died somewhere between red and green. A tragedy of seconds. He was 61.

When I was little, Terry used to scare me. You see, contrary to popular belief I was a nervous child who clung to the apron-strings and hid away. Terry was a bouncy and enthusiastic man with a beard who encouraged everyone to do anything. It is possible that my have-a-go attitude today is somewhat down to my first forays onto the stage at Christmas panto to get a sweetie off the Widow Twankey. Yup, that was my Uncle Terry – in drag. The man wore boobs brilliantly.

Aside from his panto hilarity, Terry played many serious roles and was a director of many more plays at the Garrick theatre in Altrincham. He found the patience and professionalism to work with his family, playing alongside his wife (often cast as principal boy) and directing his daughter, my cousin Laura, in starring female roles.

No matter how busy he was with the theatre and his work as a nurse and healthcare professional, Terry always had time to invite visitors into his home and offer them any number of drinks or a simple cup of tea. It is this side of Terry I will remember most as they are my most recent memories and as an adult, those that are my true opinion of this man whose boisterous-ness scared me when so young.

When TSK met Terry last year I think he found it hard to believe that I was related to Terry's wife. Strictly come dancing was being heavily critisiced on TV and we settled into their warm suburban home with our usual glass of something warming for the cockles and talked of impending holidays to America.

Since his death, I have explained why I will hold this man in such high regard and why I hold this side of the family so precious to me. They represent a part of my life that is lost to me. I stopped dancing at around 9 or 10 years of age. Since the age of about 14 I have slightly regretted that decision. Who knows whether I would’ve had the tenacity to stick at it any longer or anywhere different? Nontheless, when I go to see a play, a show, a performance of any kind I find it difficult to control my emotions. Most people are impressed but I feel moved to some greater degree – tear in my eye kind of stuff. Perhaps I’m just soft but I find it inspiring to watch others excel at something I genuinely found difficult to stick to and to master.

So I loved this man and his family for giving me the opportunity to get that little bit closer to that world which is so different from mine. At the same time, I love him for the mutual respect and regard he always held for me. The few times we got together in a year or another year, he would want to know what I’d been up to, where I’d been, what my next project was. Then he’d admit, “ooh bloody hell Andrea, where do you get the energy from? You’re bloody brilliant you know, you’d never catch me on a bike, ooh goodness me.”

I once had a chat with a friend about fear. She admitted to me that she wanted to overcome her fear of height and could not imagine doing the things that I have done when I climb. I concluded that fear is a very personal feeling because in contrast, there is no way I could physically stand on a stage in front of a room of people and sing or, for that matter, talk – never mind remember lines and cues. The reactions of fear for me on the stage are the same as my friend at the top of a mountain – sweaty palms, absence of voice, breathlessness.

So it is Terry’s mutual respect that I will miss along with his enthusiasm for life and interest in others, his support, his banter and his sense of family. Any regrets? I suppose I wish I’d asked Terry more about his work at the theatre but the problem is, he was so damn modest, all he was prepared to tell me is,

“it’s hard work but then, that's showbiz.”

We said our goodbyes to Terry on 15th December at Bowdon Church. The church was filled with colleagues, friends and family and he left the building to a standing ovation. See you later old friend.

And so it goes on

After one passionate night of gentle cuddles (as I regained full movement and managed the night without many trips to the little room), TSK now has The Lurgy.

It is a perfect opportunity for quiet, lonely internet christmas shopping.

Now where did I put the new credit card...

Revised Hell

I got a stomach bug in the early hours of yesterday morning so my new-found skill of being able to sleep in more than one position was shattered by not being able to sleep at all. TSK had to make another emergency pharmacy trip - this time for Dioralyte and anti-vomitting drugs. My body has achieved some interesting contortions this week.

At the end of it all, I felt like I'd completed an open 5 event - the same muscular pain and feeling of having consumed nothing but electrolytic drinks for the last 5 hours. For last nights dinner I gorged myself on 6 grapes and a pear before TSK came back from work with a packet of Complan for me.

How do old people drink that stuff?

I'm affraid of the dark

In the hours between 10pm and 7am the demons come. They start to growl and rumble when I'm sitting on the sofa and I delay the action of lying down to go to sleep until they can be stilled by my fidgeting no more.

As I sit on the edge of the bed I have to shuffle into just the right place so that when I rock to the side to lie-down the gremlins only have a small window of opportunity to tear and chew at my muscles in my side. If I get my position wrong, the gremlins torture my aching spine as I move my legs to get my knees and feet away from the side of the bed and onto the protective support of the matress.

I lie and pant, breathing through the pain as the terrible beasts writhe within me, their scaly, spiny backs heaving against my spine and scrabbling at my rib-cage. My left arm hawks my pillows into place wherever my head has ended up. My right had goes between my knees to reduce the misalignment of my pelvis to a minimum. TSK holds a frozen ice pack wrapped in a towel to my spine and it acts like a magical ointment, slowly drowning the gremlins until they fidget no more...

but it is not over. As my breath slows again to shallow panting that is currently the norm, I know that my midnight alarm will go again, that the back will spasm, the gremlins needing to go for a wee. I will doze on the loo, not wanting to stand, not wanting to sit until the gremlins get cold and tell me to go back to bed.

They aren't satisfied with bed though and like a baby, I have to take them downstairs and feed them. Only they eat Paracetamol and Co-codamol and Ibuprofen and other drugs I have never heard of. Once they've been fed, I have to burp them. I walk up and down, back and forth in a living room that's filled with kitchen and chairs and laundry. There's not much space to walk but I stroll up and down, jiggling my baby gremlins up and down, sucking the air in through my teeth, waiting for the drugs to work and my muscles to get used to movement again.

I do dishes, I tidy away. I want to sleep but I don't want to lie down. I crouch down to the freezer, bending my knees, not my spine and retreive another icepack. It is tied around my waist with a towl and kept in place by my dressing gown belt like a geishsa's robe and I shuffle like my feet are bound.

Once I have decided I have enough pain releif and mobility to lie down without fuss I head back to bed. In a futile effort not to disturb TSK, I try to lie down carefully but inevitably I scream so loud he is there, exhausted, at my side asking me what he can do. I try to think of something that will help so he can feel like he is helping but I have nothing. He gently touches my hair, touches his forehead to mine. So gentle so that he doesn't hurt me more. Sometimes I NEEEEED him so badly to do everything at once. Apply the cold pack, move it here, move it there, move my pillow, put my dressing gown on, take it off, remove my socks. He works quickly and precisely. He calls the NHS helpline for me and I talk to the nurse between gasped breaths and screams.

Finally at 1.40 we are all back to sleep until the 4am charges start. Great explosions of pain in my waist. These are caused either by my overwhelming urge to lie in a different position than the one I am in (impossible) or by the urge to eat something since I threw up my lunch and only had a cup of soup for dinner. I feed the gremlins their drugs and start the prowling dance around the living room again, this time feeding on grapes and cheese to quash the hunger pangs. Success, then failure as the hunger pangs turn to burp-pangs and yawn-pangs - for every process in this body hurts right now (yes, even farting is a carefully orchestrated squeeze). As my body processes the food, I let out series of little yelps. Burps are released in tiny quantities but inevitably the piece-de-resistance stops me in my tracks and makes my knee buckle as it takes the strain off the spinal muscle that suddenly has so much to do with burping.

TSK's ankles appear at the top of the stairs and I explain my midnight feast, sending him back to bed. The next time I see him he is bringing me a morning cup of tea, despite my grumpy and depressed response that, "I don't know what I want!". I admire his loyalty, determination, care and effort and am genuinely grateful but also I am nauseous and sure enough 5 minutes later I am sweating and 7 minutes later I am talking to god on the great white telephone at the top of the stairs, each heave followed by a pathetic, mewing, "Ow!". I detest throwing up. With a bad back it is hell.

This proves it though, the co-codamol is the only drug I have taken in the last two days - giving the ibuprofen a miss after I accidentally over-dosed twice (though medically, I didn't, in my head, not following the instructions and taking a double-dose, twice, pretty much constitutes an OD). I phone the NHS helpline again in the desperate hope that the nurse at the other end will tell me I probably have an infection and should go to see my GP and tell her she's an idiot. So far I have been diagnosed over the phone and that doesn't seem acceptable to me when I am in so much pain... SOOooooHHHHH much pain. However, she merely suggests I talk to madamme GP again and get some painkillers that don't make me puke.

By the time I talk to Yon Doc I am so happy to be getting something that might not make me puke, my fears of an infection are quashed and I merrily accept the next trial feed for the gremlins. It comes with a recommendation that I buy anti-nausea drugs to accompany it. The nurses, the doctors, the pharmaceutical ladies, the people at work all seem to have gone through this hell themselves and I'm embarrassing myself thinking that my pain is any worse (and therefore comes from a more severe source) than theirs. I suck it up and pick up the new drugs.

My appetite is re-whetted by consumption of plain Jacob's crackers - the only thing I could face this morning and which TSK took a special pre-work trip to the shops for. I head out to "The Starfish and Coffee" in Woot Bass for pancakes, syrup and bacon. Briefly the thought crosses my mind that the bacon might be uncomfortable later but that's what the anti vomitting drugs are for.

The "shopping" (I picked up a £4.50 Jaegar blouse from Oxfam as well as the drugs) done, I decide to visit my local beauty-spot, Jubilee Lake, as I've lived here for a while and not been there yet. I take a path that starts at the back of sainsburys car park and follow it for about 2 miles before it peters out to nothing between the school playing fields above and a steep slope to the sports club playing field below. The fallen trees, brambles and ivy are inpenetrable to a girl with a bad back and a big thick down coat so I retrace my steps until I can take a rather illegal trek across the school playing field. Thankfully, no grumpy headmasters give me a hard time and the kids keep their footballs to themselves. A strike by one of thoses basetards is my worst nightmare today.

A few suburban streets later I find a footpath running behind all houses, the Wiltshire downs reaching out to the M4 and the Cotswolds beyond and I stop to try out the new drugs since it is time. A yellow tit flits through the trees right before me and I tempt a robin to interact by breaking off a bit of Jacobs cracker for it.

Continuing on my 0.5 mph plod I arrive at the path down to Jubilee lake. It's little more than a small duck pond. About 30 ducks are laughing at my stunted gait as I stop every so often to encourage a burp or a sigh. The back muscle can only cope with one blow at a time and burping and walking is not on. The lone fisherman is warily avoiding the lone swan. He's too engrossed to notice me stopping but it's probably a relief since the down coat is still muddy from last weekend and I'm wearing my fleece walking trousers to keep out the cold.

Back at the road, I read the sign which informs me that the area surrounding Jubilee Lake is one of our surviving ancient woodlands so I am happy it is there, even if it is only a little duck pond and some trees.

When I get to the top of the hill above Jubilee lake it becomes apparent to me that I have walked too far. I still have to get home. It doesn't help that I try a shortcut and come across yet another footpath that stops at a school. It strikes me that once upon a time, any Tom or Harry with his Dick could have walked through playgrounds unvetted and emerged the other side to continue his way home. Sadly though, I had to retrace my steps away from the locked gate. I passed the other side of the school. The leafless hedge full of toys and tennis balls of the summer. I hobbled down Longleaze and pep-talked my way back to the house, hardly veering to avoid carelessly left dog poo.

The last hill was the finest challenge yet. The new drugs were working. I squeezed the few gremlins that were still awake to one side and strode up the hill, front door key in hand. I turned the key and it crippled me to my knees. I conclude that I have hurt my back screwing cabinets to the wall and head back to my favourite place - a hot bath.

Where did life go?

It's Sunday morning and yet it feels like a week day. With the skiving I have done last week, I'm not sure what day it is anymore. I realised yesterday I haven't blogged since the Wild Wales Challenge in August.

It's not skiving as such. About 6 weeks ago I began to work 50 hour weeks. Driving to Wales and back 3 times a week (for the hours I work mean a return train journey can take twice as long) has taken it out of me and taken it out of my training and my work on the kitchen so last week I started to reclaim my life.

On Monday when I got into work at 1pm after a morning of marking up a countertop, my resource manager told me that my project manager was worried he was killing me. I responded that he was justified in such a thought and that I was in the process of reclaiming my life. On Friday I also got to work at 1 after a morning of plumbing and when I completed my timesheet, I still managed to book in excess of a standard 37.5 hour week.

The plumbing is finally finished. The living room is almost back to normal except for the oven and sink, awaiting collection by freecyclers. There are two cabinets to go in place where the plasterwork still needs to dry and then the final hole to cut in the countertop for the new hob before the pictures appear and my house is open for guests again.

My racing season has been somewhat futile as ever. All about having fun. I am incapable of keeping pace with the leading woman and my team mate, Claire but I try and I find my place amongst the unfit men at the back and I encourage my team mates as they lap me.

Training has been limited. When I do go to the office from my home address, I inevitably jump in the Vanu since I'm late, so very late and will want to be home urgently via a shop to buy eats then continue with the kitchen. There have been no saturday rides for a long time.

Let's be honest though, except for Canada (where commuting was the only riding I got to do), I have traditionally been a lazy winter cyclist anyway so really, more than ever before, I have found snippets of time to train this season.

Every Tuesday night I join the Swindon Road Club in the gym at Fitness First and we let all our frustrations rip in an hour of stationary bike madness to Faithless and Chiccane and, bizarely The Ace of Spades finds its way in there.

The room is hot and dark, which is a relief because the sight of sweat running down the walls might be unsightly. The bikes are no more than a bent elbow's distance appart, meaning I occasionally make contact with the clammy elbow next to me.

We do various excercises, spinning the pedals in double-time to the music, adding resistance and keeping single time with the music, adding more resistance and standing up. Then, after the climb we sit down again and try not to touch the dial, just keep hauling the pedals around. This is good, it replicates the cyclo-cross need to keep sitting the weight on the back wheel whilst climbing a steep hill.

Then the sprint tunes - as my legs whirr by, the lack of resistance means my knees start to lock-out - getting left behind by the pedals so I add resistance to give me something to sprint against and before I know it I am in a race, pushing to the finish-line to get there before the person next to me - wherever "there" is. The instructor knows what to say to keep us pumped, keep the brain working - or stop it working during the minute-long sprint sessions when he asks us to give 110%. "This is my key philosophy..."

Claire and I have discussed stealing the CD to play over the commentary tannoy at the national championships.
Trying desperately not to cramp-up on the way down Pen-Y-Ghent. 3rd of "The Three Peaks" in September. The event was fantastic with perfect sunny weather and not too hot. There was an amazing view off the top of Whernside, looking at the Howgill fells and lake district beyond. I didn't take enough food with me and was starting to cramp up on the way down Whernside. I stepped off the track and put onen foot into a deep rabit hole. When I fell, both calf muscles went into cramp, leaving me screaming in the grass until I could persuade the pain to leave me. A bit scary for the passers by! At the bottom of the ascent of Pen-Y-Ghent, I comandeered some rasins from a spectator which got me through the rest of the day.

The day was marred by my dad not riding. Three weeks before the event he was knocked off his bike by a car-driver. He had surgery on his face a week later to plate a broken cheek-bone and, understandably, was not ready for the event. This would have been his 36th attempt at an event he has completed every year since he was 24. He is 3rd in holding this record (consecutive years ridden) and now it is over, thanks to one split second of undue attention by some muppet in a car. Mostly, I was looking forward to making my come-back to this event with my dad in his 60th year on this lovely planet but it was not to be.


Playing in the tank tracks at a local event in October. Wearing the new teams' colours. This was the hottest cyclo-cross race I have done in the "winter". We all sat in the field in our shorts and teeshirts afterwards and it's why I'm very pink.

Wild Wales Challenge Madness

There are days when the alarm rings at 6.15 and it doesn't annoy me so much. Those are the days that I am on holiday and there are important things to be done. It is best when those things are not work on my house but they are epic bike rides.

Efficiently fed and caffeined-up we headed for Bala leisure centre and queued to get our start-time signed before cycling into the Welsh mizzle.

The beginning of our ride was reccied on Saturday, along the quiet side of Bala Lake (or Llynn Tegid as the Welsh prefer to call it). By the time we got to the turn-off for the hills, the mizzle had stopped and the sun was set in to shine all day (through gaps in the cloud as only it does in Wales).

We soon turned off the main A494 towards the harder terrain of the Trawsffynydd Mountain Road. As the slope steepened we stood on the pedals, then started to strain then finally resorted to walking. I don't mind telling you this since the grade was 14%, it had been going on for over a mile and there were 80-odd miles to go. I had deliberately elected to ride this event on my higher geared lightweight racing bike that I will use for the 3 Peaks next month. TSK did suggest it would be easier to do the Wild Wales on the heavier 'Lovely' with the lower gear ratios... and he was right. I had, however, argued that anything I couldn't ride up could be run up with the race bike. Therefore, confirming my confidence in my ability to complete the 3 Peaks in September and ply me with excellent training opportunity and the knowledge I could sit on my new £64, 9g saddle for the desired time period.

All across Trawsffynydd mountain, stretches of 10% - 14% road reared their ugly slopes as we progressed doggedly along. I am happy to report that I rode up all of them, short and sharp as they were.

Finally, in a long, open stretch of moorland the descent away came into view with the occasional gate and cattle-grid just to make it interesting.


The long descent finally dropped back into forest. Descending away from other riders, as is the way of Trep, I drew up to a gate being closed by a farmer. As they set off up the hill, I called out, "car" to any of my companions on their way down the narrow lane. I opened the gate to let myself through and could hear shouting back up the hill. I stood for a moment, gate in hand, trying to figure out what the men in the landrover were yelling. Turns out it was, "shut the fucking gate". I took the time to say a frustrated, "Give me a chance!" in my best sarcastic girlie voice before feigning a closed gate and waiting to open it for TSK and the others following-on close behind. All before, I must add, finally closing the gate once and for all. Apparently the herd of invisible cows did not escape as a result of my courteous act.

Further into the woodland lanes, an oncoming MTB rider found himself facing the Shall-remain-nameless CC, aiming to power past me. On the tight road, the poor bloke nearly wheelied into the bushes, stil clipped in. Whilst I worried for his safety and the event's reputation, the shall-remain-nameless CC seemed content to yell, "learn to ride" at the unsuspecting member of the public. Rarely has an entire group of my companions stirred such annoyance in me but I suspect pack behaviour was somewhat to blame so I kept my mouth shut..

Into the feeding station at Llanelltyd for a chat with the man wearing an "Etape" jersey. 160km followed by the Alpe d'Huez climb... and all before the Tour de France entourage arrives to finish the day... though that's another year for us, it's still nice to hear someone else recommend it..

We are ahead of cut-off time by 2 hours but still leave control quickly so we don't seize-up. A short stretch of smooth main road then over the wooden slatted river-bridge, tolls paid by our entry fee. The impending mass of Cadair Idris ahead told us that more climbing was on the menu. A promising start, then into a massive sharp left turn, the text in the instructions giving the clue, "left turn up sharp hill signposted Youth Hostel". TSK, following what instructions I choose to divulge to him, was in the wrong gear and struggled valiantly to stay on and find the right gear. After two punishing switch-backs on a 17% hill, both of us were on our feet again. This time I decided to stick to my promises and started to jog, keeping the loud-mouths from the Shall-remain-nameless CC bemusedly riding along beside me at a runner's pace, heaving and hauling, yet desperately still on their bikes. It is my silent revenge for earlier.

Up on the moor again and my friend Mary catches up for a chat. A boy wearing a polka-dot king of the mountains jersey calls, "coming through" and, ever the mule, Mary follows the boy, passing him back. I'm not saying Mary's an ass but honestly, he asked for it. It would be rude and cruel for me to divulge his nickname for the day on air.

Lunch is in Barmouth after we cross via the rail/footbride and queue to pay our £1 toll. We bump into a man we met on the "Hills & Plains of Cheshire" Audax in July. We find a sandwich shop serving hot pork, apple sauce, gravy & stuffing baguettes and find it is just the job.

Traffic is frayed between Barmouth and Tan-Y-Bont but everyone survives the patience-test with nothing more than a few beepen car horns. Who khew holiday Sundays were so important? The instruction to, "climb steadily" fell on deaf ears and unclipped cleats as we again faced lengthy and steep climbs. Finally the gradient relented to testingly rideable as we dug into reserves that would eventually bring us out further up the busy coast-road.

Looking tired but sunny just outside Tal-Y-Bont.

Our regular meetings with fast-groups and slower ones confirms our status as the tortoises of the event. With my route-sheet close to hand I regularly confirm the directions to riders who could otherwise go faster.

The return to the main road at sea level is incident-free as the grass-middled winding lanes roll over contours like the Andrex puppy has been at work in the countryside.

The main-road at sea level brings a 3 mile respite before the turn at the Magnox Hydro station sinposted, "pony trecking". The irony is not lost on me as the road rockets to 20% incline and in desperation I call out, "find me a pony!" before I get off and walk again.

The engineering porn on display is hard to resist though and I find myself singing, "turbines to the right of me, pipelines to the left, here I am, stuck in the middle with a bunch of sweaty men". I conclude I am a sweaty walking-woman then all 6 of the folk walking with me are gob-smacked to see a lone rider litterally zoom past us. I was too stoopified to think, "I'll have what he's having".

At the bottom of the climb into Gelililydden

At the top of that climb was the beautiful village of Gelililydden and it's lovely village hall with bikes stacked outside and a man signing forms and tea and cakes on offer. TSK was contented. We have never been so far ahead of schedule and had such time to spare. I was more nervous about not having peed sice 10am and setting off asap so I could keep the legs moving and guzzle more water en route. Mary passed me again as the song, "ooh ah just a little-bit, ooh ah, a little bit more" were echoing through my head and we discussed the 'whys?' of us doing this and how good it feels when we stop. After she rode away from me, I didn't see Mary again so she was obviously even keener than I to make it stop.

Our final obstacle of the day was the previously mentioned, Trawsffyndd mountain road. If only I'd realised earlier in the day that this was my road home, I might've paid more attention. If I'd paid more attention though, I might not have carried on, knowing that I would have to retrace those steps. As it was, we constantly debated which of the slopes ahead would see us off our bikes and walking again. Miraculously I found myself riding past many of my male peers as they pushed their bikes along.

One man from the Cheshire CC proclaimed, "I'm just bushed now." We had a chat about our mileage since he'd accidentally reset his pooter (and when you're that tired, no one is good at maths). The conclusion that we were close to 3 miles from the next turn spurred all of us on as we realised it must be nigh-on downhill all the way.

As he rolled by on the downhill he proclaimed, "this is the bit about cycling I love". He promptly tumbled head-over-handlebars, legs flying, off the road and into a grassy bog. Scaring the living daylights out of me, I left my bike at the side of the road to show my location, with the man now out of sight of the road. TSK was then scared shitless when he saw me stumbling around in the undergrowth. As 6 other people on the mountain assumed I had crashed, I guess it was my dignity that was most badly damaged.

Our tumbling friend was fine. He was lucky not to land on a rock and suffered no more than dented pride and the spoils of nature (sheep poo) on his top, under his bag, on his hands, on me. He did what was best and got back on the bike. After a brief spell of us molly-coddling him, he joined similarly speedy old hooligans in a much faster descent than we cared for.

Once down the scary road/tractor-trail the main A459 beckoned us back into Bala. I swear they moved Bala. We rolled along at a fair pace. With a tail wind, TSK was satisfied to have legitimately used every gear he had on his bike. On old dude passed us wearing a very 80's sweat-band on his head. He was closely followed by another old dude wearing similarly 80's day-glo cap and socks, muttering, "owwwh! I suppose I'll have to go after him..." and promptly sprinted to catch up. A team of Manchester riders raced by in chain-gang formation and as I mock-copied their style I found myself lifting our pace ever so slightly and, I am pleased to report, catching up to the 80's old-boys.

All that served to pass the time to the finish line, a glorious 10 hours, 92 miles and 2707m of climbing since we started.

Woot Bass Phase 1

The new shed has arrived. For 7 working days prior to its arrival we slaved. First carefully dismantling the old shed so it could be freecycled

then digging out earth for the new foundations and breaking up an old concrete path so the new shed could have space behind it and not be buried in the neighbour's fence.

Concrete forms were errected and adapted at the tight coner.

I went to the tool hire shop and enquired about a small cement mixer. A batch of new ones was on the way and they'd bring it round. I was relieved since I needed to be in to receive the shed.

I bimbled as much as possible, getting things right, taking down the old arch and its cimbing plants. There was nothing else to do and so I started to mix the concrete by hand.

Before I made the biggest mistake of my weekend (on Thursday) the nice Polish boy arrived with the cement mixer. He manoevred it round the back, ("is not heavy") and set it up for me. I wondered if it was sturdy enough?

"Is OK"

He was looking at me. He wanted to show me how it worked. I wanted to learn how it worked. I realised I didn't have a long power cable. I scoured the house and called the tennant but resorted to nodding at the on/off switches to convince the boy I knew how it works. He drove away. He was probably shaking his head.

With a power cable borrowed from number 75, I continued my work. For the next 6 hours I shovelled agreate and sand and hosed water in the machine, dragging it, as required, across the area to be filled unitil the area was full of sticky wet concrete.

In that timeframe the shed arrived and, offering his hand in marriage, the chaps declared themselves impressed with my work, while offering their opinion at the same time. They declared me too smart to patronise when I questioned his use of the word 'level' when what he actually meant was 'smooth'.

At 3pm TSK's mum arrived and with me still shovelling, I set her about staining the new shed. At 4pm the nice freecyclers came to pick up the old shed which gave me the opportunity to sit down for the first time in 4 hours.

At 7.30, half the slab was finally laid. We damped the top surface flat and wrote our names (and TSK's) in the smooth concrete then went down the pub for dinner.

I spent the next day painting the vast expanse of new walls and base. TSK arrived on Saturday and shovelled and poured concrete with all his might, halving the task of laying the other half-slab. A man came to pick up the cement mixer and declared himself horified at the huge machine they had given me. Still,they only charged me the quoted ammount and tried to give me change of £15.

A week later we assembled the new building. Wall by wall it became a structure. Then the crew of TSK's dad, my work colleague and ex-tenant all appeared with perfect timing to finger-tips and tippie-toe lift the roof into place.

The heavy-duty roof that had TSK and I staggering round the garden like drunks when we handled it on our own, slotted into place like a square block in a square hole with 6 people handling it, leaving me wondering what on earth I invited them all for and realising that I had no beer in.

It took a good hour or two more of felt-measuring and lifting, upward nailing and door hanging, tacking and trimming before we ran out of gusto and returned a week later to glaze the place.

Result is that with a little help from our friends, family, local businesses and freecycle our first extension to a house we're yet to live in is finally complete. As my reward for all the hard work, the latest is that I'll finally relocate my job, move in again and next week, finally get to enjoy the house I picked to be my home.