Riveting stuff

The Client reckons the last post and my paranoid rantings about Telecom were a bit too 'green ink and no margins', so, to avoid being profiled, this week we're back to the hard reality of living on a building site.
The garage doors are receiving their cladding in sheet steel. The Portuguese Neighbour called round to lend me his rivet gun. Despite being dressed up to the nines, he couldn't resist getting down on his hands and knees to show me the right technique and fix the first row of rivets.


The zinc coated steel matches a treat the bare concrete walls of the ground floor. As The Portuguese Neighbour leaves, probably to find a dry cleaners before facing up to his wife, I settle down to the task of drilling and riveting. My back turned to the street, and the front of the house only separated by a thin strip of land from the pavement, I can hear the conversations of everyone that passes by. The steel railings are made of 10cm blades of steel and act like vertical jalousies (Venitian blinds) in the sense that you can't see through them at an angle. Which of course means that my presence, apart from the occasional clack of the rivet gun, goes unnoticed to passers by. Mother and small child, 'Mummy mummy, isn't that the ugly house?', 'shh, yes darling that's the one'.

Voila, the ultimate accolade.

Zapping Zapruder

The next visit from Telecom man proved unfruitful. This time the manhole was not blocked by a parked vehicle, it had disappeared! Unable to find the other end of the wire pulling line left by the previous Telecom man, he had to admit defeat. On being asked whether or not he had access to a plan or an engineer he could call in for assistance he replied :

'I'm private sector mate, I don't 'av any a that stuff'.

Curiously, connecting us to the outside world with this little bit of cable between the house and the manhole (that has taken seven months so far) is one of the last remaining areas where Telecom still have a monopoly. Having subcontracted out every little bit of the task to separate private subcontractors, Telecom have forgotten the essential component - that worked so well in the water company intervention - coordination.

On returning the following day Telecom man managed to find the manhole (probably brought a divining rod with him). Only problem being the distance between the manhole and the house. Unable to accomplish the pull through on his own he enlisted the assistance of the French Neighbour, who, despite his 80 years of age, is a remarkably strong man. Regular exercise tossing boules in the back garden means he can double as a Telecom man apprentice when needed (big thank you needed here for French Neighbour).

So now, roll of drums, we have the telephone. The Client opened a bottle of champagne in celebration and maybe this weekend we'll hang out flags.

On a not unrelated point, according to New Scientist magazine, two Russian mathematicians have suggested that the Large Hadron Collider, or LHC as it's known (actually under construction) will mark a very important turning point in history, so to speak. Apparently the LHC will be sufficiently powerful to send particles back in time. This, say the Russians, will make it the first time machine. If their theory is correct, time travel into the past is not possible beyond the moment of the creation of the first time machine. Implacable logic which implies that from the moment the LHC springs to life we will have the first 'time tourists' visiting us from the future. This will inevitably prove frustrating for the first 'time tourism' companies who will be technically limited to visits from the year 2008 onwards. Which means, more importantly, no special day return trip for The Architect back to the grassy knoll to find out who (or how many) really did it.

Well there's still a ray of hope - judging by my experiences with our national Telecom company they've already invented the time machine and managed to take French telecommunications back to those legendary days of the early sixties.

Where do I book? Anyone got Richard Bransons phone number? I have a phone!

PS: Implacable Russian logic probably involves a lot of vodka.

put a rabbit

The saga continues. Telecom faltered just before the finishing line. We are now 7 months from the start. After the - terribly tiny hole in the pavement - stage, the next, and hopefully last ordeal lined up was supposed to be the - pulling a tiny cable through an overly large plastic conduit - stage.

The appointment was for 14h00. At 13h00 The Architect receives a call from Telecom man, who announces in a voice that hasn't appreciated the ban on smoking in cafés 'Sorry mate, I've arrived early and there's nobody 'ere' *. This of course came as no surprise to The Architect, who is resolutely punctual though never early by one whole hour, except when it's a meeting with The Client .
'Can you come an open up mate?'
'Of course I can my good man.' I replied
The Architect sets of immediately on foot/bicycle/train/bus to regain Maison Camy as quickly as is humanly possible (if you've been waiting 7 months for a telephone you can run really fast whilst eating a sandwhich).
Half way there, somewhere between bicycle and train, another call arrives on the mobile from Telecom man 'Ere guv there's a car parked on the manhole cover, a green Opel'
He obviously thinks I know everyone in town and will instantly be able to call the owner. I suggest he waits another 15 minutes until I get there and together we'll sort the situation out. Needless to say when I arrive he's gone, and in the street, not a single green Opel to be seen.

The Architects mother, who has had many more years of 'call centre/technician intervention' experience, suggested the obvious that I had ignored - the green Opel that was blocking the works actually belonged to the Telecom man and it was his way of saying he'd finished his day and was 'off 'ome mate'

Next time lets hope he parks the car on his bloody foot - that way when I arrive he might just still be around.

' 'ere, that don't 'alf 'urt mate'

*(I've taken the liberty of translating French directly into Cockney to conserve the authenticity of the dialogs - no disrespect to either intended)