At last, settlement has taken place.
We are now owners of an unused petrol station - known as the Old Roadhouse, on a section of road which has been by-passed from the main highway for well over 15 years. Travellers still love to take the detour, though. Perhaps it breaks the monotony of highway driving, as they enter our small town, follow the main road and exit further along, back on to the highway. Or, perhaps they have a warped fettish to be embroiled in a scene like something from "The Hills Have Eyes".
Either way, venture into our small town and be lucky if you get out the other end... we will keep you here....
Snigger snigger... snort...
The Old Roadhouse (soon to be known as "Metalsmithery", but we sometimes refer to it as "the shop") comprises of a large gallery, a 16 metre commercial kitchen (gutted), an old cool room which still has ancient wooden panels, dark and dingy store rooms, a kitchen once used by the truckies (who travelled through our town when the old bridge was stronger and could take the truck weight), male and female toilets and a three bedroom cottage attached.
Did I just say "toilets"?
Since our takeover, we've bashed down mould infested walls, replaced broken windows, ripped a bathroom and kitchen apart, hacked down 10 years of undergrowth (in the cottage garden alone), removed trailer loads of rubbish, cleaned toilets, chain sawed old trees, ...
What? What was that? Toilets?
10 years of non cleaning, non disinfecting, non flushing toilets seem to have been the reason for my existence during the past couple of days. Indigent toilets and grease traps and septic tanks. Indigent of regular water flushes, and suction maintenance performed by our trusty A1 Cleaning man, Bob.
Bob is a force to be reckoned with. He has a huge red truck with a huge tank fitted on the back of the truck and a huge hose attached to the side of the tank. Bob stores his "working gear" on the side of his truck, but wears the same hat in and outside of the cabin. His winter beanie hat reads "Same Shit Different Day".
Sorry about that swear word, but it's just so fitting, 'cos that's what Bob has to deal with. Every day. It doesn't bother him, though, as he is just so pleasant and sports a good attitude at all times. Even when the wind and rain laces his face while loading his pumps, he is passionate about his vocation in life and will gladly explain the process of "sludge", "water" and "crust" to any who will hear.
It's me I worry about, though. What a sad state of affairs when one refers to one's septic tanks with pet names because one has spent quality time getting to know them. Helping to lift their lids, carting water while Bob stirs the sludge and suctions it out, as well as devising a plan to eradicate the Old Plum Tree's roots which have found their way into the dark depths of the tank's bellies.
"Motherload", "Sister Act" and "Cus"
Help! I need a life!