It's not that I don't like hard work. It's just I hate to get my hands dirty. (It's not as if I have to wash my hands 40 times every two minutes either, I just don't like dusty hands. I do have an absolute mania about dirt on my feet though. And it's not that I'm just icky about feet because I happen to find Keanu's bare feet devastatingly attractive. Er, anyway...)
The thing is that I recently ordered about 20 chairs for one of our smaller branches. Hurrah! Hurrah! they arrived. In pieces. Now I know it didn't say that in the catalogue but it turns out I have to construct the chairs myself. And they are absolutely filthy. Not the sitty down bit, but the legs. They're thick with grey dust and wrapped in dirty rags. Aargh....
So today I came over all Rosie the Riveter and had a go at putting one together. It took me about half an hour and I had to have two goes at it because I put the seat on backwards the first time and I kvetched and moaned the whole time because it was DIRTY!! I then adjured each of my colleagues to admire my handiwork (Look! I made a chair!) but only the brave few actually dared to sit on it.
This was going to be a post about women's war work and the munitions factories in Footscray and how I'm a moaning minnie compared to them but I'm too tired (and I have to wash my hands) and it's going to need me to do some actual research and really, I've got last night's Tour de France to catch up on. On rations tonight because it's the day before payday, so dinner is quick and sorted. I don't feel so bad about this because I cheffed up a storm the other night with maple and paprika glazed pork chops (odd combination I know, but it's a winter wonderland of flavour) served with sweet and vinegary pickled cabbage. I had to use the last of my Canadian maple syrup which was a bit sad because it came in a flat tin eerily reminiscent of a hip flask. Those crazy Canadians!
Tomorrow I'll be wearing my blue jeans and checked shirt and get back on the assembly line. Toodle pip!