I’ve not got a particularly good track record with angle grinders. I bought one a few years ago when we were fitting steel spindles to the new staircase at our house in Huddersfield, with near disastrous consequences.
A family friend of Amanda, a very good carpenter, was doing all the clever stuff and I was assisting by fetching and carrying and making complementary noises. Then came time to cut the spindles and rather than the carpenter take control he showed me how to make the first cut and then told me to get on with it.
Me and power tools have never really got on. Three or four spindles in I got some unexpected ‘kick-back’ dropped the still spinning angle grinder which hit the floor and bent the aluminium guard onto the spinning disk. This tore a section free and sent it hurtling in the general direction of my head. I turned to one side and a sharp pointed piece of shrapnel pierced my left ear and embedded itself in the back of my skull.
I quickly pulled it free, went into the house with blood running through my fingers and trickling down the inside of my shirt, and sought the emergency assistance of the family friend carpenter. He took one look and said, in a good Yorkshire accent, ‘It’s nowt’. Despite my injury I went back to cutting the spindles, but now with a much safer hacksaw.
When Amanda came home I recounted the story and then asked her to clean the wound. She listened intently to one of my usual hypochondriac tales but on seeing the wound promptly passed out!
It was then with some trepidation that I decided to christen my new angle grinder which I purchased on Monday from AKI in Lugo, and tackle the steel tubed milking stalls.
This time I was correctly attired for one of the most fearsome bits of DIY kit; non-slip boots, hard-hat with visor, thick gloves, and my increasingly filthy overalls. I had even read the manual. My new ‘toy’ made short work of the substantial steels and after a few cuts I was quite enjoying myself with sparks flying everywhere and metal being cut like a knife through butter.
Enjoying myself until I realised that I had set myself on fire. I patted the fire out to find that my jumper had melted onto the t-shirt underneath. I quickly disrobed. ‘Made from Recycled Plastic Bottles’ read the label, a Christmas present a few years ago from Mother…thanks Mum.
I’ll put my wardrobe malfunction down to tiredness.
Last night there was a massive domestic argument in the house next door. It was the kind of argument that you’d expect to end in a blood curdling scream as one of the protagonists sinks a knife into the other. At about 1am I was awoken from a deep sleep and with the noise thought someone was inside Casa Ramon. My bedroom is three rooms removed from the party wall, but I could hear them as plain as day as they yelled at one another and seemingly reorganised all the furniture in every room in the house.
It went on for about half an hour and then stopped suddenly. At 5pm the following day all the flat shutters are still down, perhaps they both had a knife and lunged at the same time? I just wish I understood more Spanish, I’m sure it would have been a great listen.