Born to Grout – Part I

With apologies to Bruce Springsteen. Well more of a mumbled “sorry mate” than a proper apology.

Ah the Boss, a man as blue collar as his denim shirts and yet in that strange fame dichotomy still a multi millionaire. I was going to choose Thunder Road Box” for the title of this entry, but even though I’m separated from my school days by twenty plus years, lavatorial humour still outs the smirk. As do the words flange, poopdeck, gusset and the semantically outstanding gibbon. Not that the gibbon itself is semantically outstanding unless you’re accustomed to a dialect consisting entirely of ook�?. That’s the problem with English, mess about with nouns and verbs and the next thing you know a hundred words have flown by, and you’ve done nothing but wibble. That’s another cracker right there.

Relaxed as I am regarding trellis, it’s merely the crest of a slippery slope housing all manner of cheerless and over-40s tasks, of which grouting is merely a representative example. What kind of desolate weekend can offer only the bleak prospect of spending quality time with a tube of sealant and a wet finger? May I just be permitted a brief fnar” at that double entendre to cheer myself up? Thank you. As unexciting as it was, it did assuage my guilt for hauling still grout covered arse out of bed at stupid o’ clock the following day to go sheep worrying in Wales. While riding my bike of course, otherwise that’d just be wrong.

But before we leave grouting – and it’s something I don’t so much want to leave rather divorce, before hastily upping sticks to a country half way round the world and leaving a disturbing lump under the patio – I’ll offer up a sneaky glance into the hidden world of bathroom sealents. Not being deemed responsible enough to operate the grouting gun, I was more your groutee “ a little known artisan skill to blend the perfect bead between unit and tile.

Stretching for perfection, my artiste all went a bit Nero demanding More grout there.. THERE¦ [wiggles indigent digit] no not THERE for Christ’s sake, THERE where the hole is now STAND BACK and SILENCE [theatrically flexes fingers], let the groutee attend to his magnum opus“. My muse would have been a couple of beers but instead Carol inadvertently offered me use of the gun at which inopportune moment a small happy child entered the bathroom. And swiftly left somewhat less happy and decorated in sticky grout. But, as I kindly pointed out, she was now at least waterproof for up to five years or her money back.

We no longer have tiles, we have a bathroom paved entirely in grout with the odd forlorn tile poking through. A job well done I’m sure you’ll agree and one off the 144 remaining tasks spreadsheeted for completion before we move or until my lifeless husk is rigour mortis’d around a paintbrush.

This is all really bollocks by the way. My wife is brill at these things and only asks for help during times of extreme strain when she’s trying to hold the entire shower cubicle up with her teeth or something. I’m the man for a crisis – even when there isn’t a crisis, there certainly will be once after I’ve strode heroically into the disaster area, power tools to the fore.

Anyway.

[To be continued]

2 thoughts on “Born to Grout – Part I

  1. Pingback: I want my life back » Blog Archive » Bingo Night!

  2. Pingback: I want my life back » Blog Archive » Papering over the cracks

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