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Becka has always been meaning we should get a garage
to put our things in (obviously not a car). I ignored it
until it suddenly happened, like the washing up.
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No problem with foundations. It's bedrock under the tarmac.
The bricklayer grumbled about having to cope with these second hand bricks,
many of which were broken, but the effect was nice.
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The crane operator delivered the sand without
spilling it or breaking the delicate new trees, which was lucky.
I would not have heard the end of it if it had gone wrong,
because it wouldn't have had I always been watching.
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Becka was also worried that the bricklayer was going
to get lazy and leave out the windows or the door. The roof sprang up.
Somehow the wood is strong enough to have a tonne of slates,
but the rafters are too weak hang things from. That's just one of those
arguments I deserve to lose because I did not help to get the garage organized.
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The weather was pretty bad most of the time.
When the roof was sealed all the builders in the area who were working
outside seemed to come round and hide under it for their lunch break.
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Money is time. The builders decided that
mixing the concrete by hand and shovelling it all day to make the floor
was better value than calling round a cement truck.
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The building is complete, like a little house.
Becka wanted me to move my office into it, but with no heating,
insulation, electricity or lights, I think I'll admire it from the outside.
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We start to move our piles of rubbish caving gear
inside and make a mess on the floor.
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