That Bloody Pencil

Right-O, tomorrow morning at 6am I’m going on delivery. Big job, stairs…I think there’s a fridge in there somewhere…and the best part is the man we call Donald Pleasence for the purposes of this blog (read about him here) is coming along. Yup, just me and my boss. I’m 6’4” he’s 5’4”, I spent my life lifting heavy fucking things, he spent his…well I’m not sure how he even got this far. I don’t like lifting heavy fucking things, so I tend to go hard and get it over with…he better keep up. There will be no stopping to chat with the nice carpenter, no time to whip out the mechanical pencil and sketch a fucking hat-rack he made his sister once. No, no Donny, when we are lifting heavy fucking things we shut up and we lift heavy fucking things until we have lifted all the heavy fucking things. Then you can play with your pencil.

I really hate that fucking pencil, or what it signifies, the 20 minutes of my life I’m about to lose. When that powder blue mechanical pencil (a mechanical pencil has lead re-fills which are advanced by clicking the end, instead of sharpening) leaves that neatly pressed khaki front left pocket you may as well find something to lean against. There are going to be diagrams. Except he can’t draw, so they are really hard to understand diagrams, you have to sort of ‘imagine’ what he’s trying to draw. In the end you are left with a mess of scrawls and over-written measurements that he then realizes he’s written on the back of something he needs…so you don’t even get that. You get the memory of the drawing from which you now have to re-draw for the factory and you better get it right and...

ahem.

Yes, well...early night for me. Going on delivery tomorrow. G'night.