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I was discussing whether I was an intellectual with Nicoline last night which led, unexpectedly to my talking about working as a sheet metal worker for nine years. Actually, I think the conversations were not linked at all and I started talking about my working with metal after seeing a bit of spiral ductwork on the ceiling of the dining room at Lagnö.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter what order it happened in or why. The fact is that I did work as a sheet metal worker for nine years, only stopping because I was sick of getting up early (that seems ironic now given I can only get up early) and being dirty.
I started because my dad asked me if I’d like six weeks temporary work on a site where he was the foreman. I would be a tradesman’s offsider. I was unemployed at the time and thought, sure, why not.
The first site I worked on was a hospital extension in Camperdown, Sydney. As I said, my dad was the foreman, and he decided who I worked with. He managed to share me around to just about everyone I think. At least I didn’t have to go and buy striped paint or a left-handed screwdriver. Though that may have been because I was the bosses’ son.
I have three distinct memories of the Camperdown job. One was working with a very big chap called Haystacks.
Obviously that was his nickname and I cannot remember his actual name. Back when he was younger he was an ice man: he would haul huge blocks of ice and deliver them to houses without fridges, in the inner west of Sydney. Apparently he was as fit as a butcher’s dog. Young, strong and built like a brick shit house.
He married a girl he loved and was happy for a long time. Then she died. He was heartbroken, being a sensitive soul, and he went rapidly downhill. He put on weight, he started smoking and drinking. Eventually he lost the ice gig and, at some stage, became a sheet metal worker. And, unfortunately, was on a one way journey to self-destruction.
I worked with him a little bit, and rather enjoyed talking to him, but he had the great skill of falling asleep in any position, at any time, doing anything. One memorable time was when he was standing at the top of a very tall ladder, drilling a hole in a bracket meant to secure a section of air conditioning ductwork. I was standing below, holding onto the ladder when the drill suddenly stopped. He’d fallen asleep, hand still holding the drill in place above his head.
He would often fall asleep in the shed at lunchtime and drop his partly smoked cigarettes onto the table where someone would pick them up and put them out. He was a very sad man. I heard that he died when he dropped a lit cigarette onto his sofa and the smoke killed him. Poor Haystacks.
The other memory I have of my time at Camperdown was working with Nuff Nuff for the first time. His real name was Frank, but he had a hair lip so his nickname was obvious. And he was an amazing tradesman.
Working with him was brilliant. He taught me so much. And not just at Camperdown. We also worked together for years on the Qantas building. We became quite the dream team. I have Frank to thank for many skills I managed to attain, with metal and other trades.
The third memory was the day of my 21st birthday.
I was at work and the men took me to the pub next door to celebrate at lunchtime. I had been drunk before, obviously, but not quite as drunk as they got me. There was a lot of beer, a lot of jokes and a lot of swaying. Dad managed to get me home unscathed, but I don’t actually recall any of that. Though I sort of remember saying something inappropriate to FI, the site supervisor when he decided to pay us a visit in the afternoon.
It was a great life for the first little while. Then I started performing in clubs with the musical group I was part of. This meant, effectively, getting a few hours of sleep whenever I had a performance. It was crazy and dangerous. Something had to give. It wasn’t the acting and singing!
And so here endeth my early years as a sheet metal worker.
Meanwhile, at the Retreat, the group went to a local-ish farm and had a wonderful tour, met some goats and bought some cheese. There were other activities but I don’t know much about them so I’ll leave them up to the readers’ imagination. Suffice it to say, they all enjoyed themselves.
What a lovely bunch of people. I have very much enjoyed having them here, doing their environmental thing.
Oh, and the decision about whether I was an intellectual or not was discussed extensively and exhaustedly. I decided that, by Nicoline’s definition, I am. And here was me thinking I was an ignorant savage. Dammit.
And for those unfamiliar with the term, FI stands for Fucking Idiot.
