I'm glad my husband hasn't got a man in tomorrow.
He's had an electrician in, he's booked a chippie and a
decorator who've both been for a measure up and for the past week there's been a builder in the garden who bares
his cleavage whenever he can.
| Not my builder |
When the sun even threatens to come out in a minute (if you're
lucky) he pulls his shirt off. Glance
through any window to feel like a voyeur.
He does have a near-Olympian body. (Boxer rather than 100 metres.)
But what is it about builders that they treat the bodies they flaunt
with disdain?
His sun-baked back, never plastered by sunscreen, is as red as the bricks
he's digging up and occasionally moving about. He doesn't wear a protective
mask when he saws up things that he shouldn't inhale.
He stops sawing and has
a fag and asks for three sugars in his tea.
"When you're ready, love."
The body he's building won't look so good in a year or two.
A roofer arrives and before you can say Health and Safety
he's flat out on a dodgy roof cuddling the old asbestos before beating it with a
hammer. Without a mask.
The senior builder arrives and says stop worrying, he's moved tons of asbestos lately:
"You don't need a licence, love. Just common sense."
