Design faults!

"Right!"

Howard had that tone in his voice that usually meant I was about to be subjected to some hard work. Now whilst I'm not averse to a bit of hard physical graft - within reason, that is - I'm not too good when it comes to having to do it in the cold. Yes, I know I'm a wuss, but that's just how it is (I actually have a theory that I was somehow misplaced at birth and really should have been born in the tropics). Anyway, back to my sense of impending hard work in the cold.

Gordon and his mini-digger (that's not a small Australian!)

"Uh huh?" I tried to sound as enthused as I could on a sunny but cold day in the middle of September (for those of you reading this in the Northern Hemisphere, that's only just out of winter down here).

"Well, now that Gordon's dug the trenches for the boat shed and I've managed to assemble a few of the frames, maybe we should see if we can bolt the first few together. It would be good to take advantage of the nice weather. What do you reckon?"

What I actually reckoned was that I would quite like to stay right where I was - in the caravan with the heater on - but I reckoned it might seem a little churlish to vocalise that. I could sense that Howard was full of enthusiasm and raring to go.

"Yeah, that's a great idea," I heard myself saying. "It looks lovely out there." Where on earth did that come from? Had I lost my marbles? Oh well, looked like I was committed.

Scrambling in the Pyrenees

Now over the years Howard and I have carried out quite a few projects together as well as a good selection of pastimes and in that time I have discovered that I definitely have a couple of serious design faults. "What could they be?" I hear you cry (or maybe you didn't, but I'm going to tell you anyway!). Well firstly, I always seem to be at least six inches - that's 15cms for you young things - too short. Too short for what? Well, rock climbing and scrambling, for starters.

Ice climbing in Crinkle Ghyll, Cumbria

They called for a combination of wild contortions and some giant leaps of faith if I was ever going to reach those hand holds that were always j--u--s--t out of reach. Ice climbing should have been less problematic, but no, the decent ice that I needed for my ice axes to sink securely into was always that little bit farther away than I could comfortably reach, resulting in moves that seemed designed to radically increase the distance between the top half and the bottom half of my body. Even canoeing found me wanting in the height stakes as I needed a step stool simply to load the canoe onto the car!

 

 

When it comes to renovations or building projects I fare little better and what's more, this is where my second design fault surfaces. A typical scenario would go something like this. Howard identifies my role in the upcoming piece of work, ensuring that I realise that it is going to be really, really simple.

"Now we're going to put this sheet of Gib on the ceiling so all I need you to do is to help me lift it up and then hold that end steady whilst I screw it on. OK?"

Having confirmed that the instructions are wonderfully clear I then move into my predetermined position, ready and willing to carry out my task. We pick the piece of Gib board up, Howard making it seem as though he is picking a feather up whilst I strain to simply get it off the ground. I finally manage to get it above my head then extend my arms up towards the ceiling as far as they will go.

"I can't quite reach. Is there anything else I can stand on?" The answer to this is quite succinct.

 "Nope."

So I stand on tiptoes with my arms practically dislocating themselves and just manage to make contact with the ceiling. I fight to hold the Gib steady. Howard prepares to drive the first screw home but just as he does so, the screwdriver makes a bid for freedom. So there we are, holding one end of the Gib each needing to somehow retrieve an errant screwdriver (and yes, I know we could have put the Gib back down again, but that would have been far too sensible an option). Once the expletives subside, a little voice drifts into my ear.

"Could you pass me that other screwdriver please? It's over there, just to your right."

Just how I am going to reach said screwdriver with only the normal complement of appendages is a trifle unclear. "Urrmm, not quite sure how I'm going manage that," I venture.

"Why?" comes the reply. "It's not that difficult - it's right by where you're standing!"

"Yes, I can see that but you see I only have two hands and they're both fully occupied with holding a rather heavy sheet of Gib up against the ceiling."

"Can't you just hold it up with one hand and reach down with the other?"

"Urrmm - no. My arms aren't long enough to do that."

So there you have it - the perils of being too short and only having two hands. I had a funny feeling this was also going to be something of an issue with assembling the boat shed but, as good old Geoffrey Chaucer said, 'nothing ventured, nothing gained,' so I put on some warm clothes and wandered outside.

The embryonic boat shed