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My
front gate is a pretty reliable indicator of how much rain there’s been. When
it’s dry it works a treat, but as the weather becomes wetter the gate swells,
so you have to lift it slightly to slide the bar into the slat.
Hmm,
think I’ll give it a little spray of WD-40, stop that rust spreading and lube
the bolt to ease on its slidy way.
Mind
you, I’d have to be blindfolded to need to rely on such tactile evidence of
recent rainfall: the bottom corner of the garden is now a lake. The turlough in
the field beyond has stretched its watery edges, as this year’s conveyor belt
of brutal Atlantic storms relentlessly pummels in. I find myself standing on
the back step looking at the lake on what was lawn, wondering if the young oak
and two year-old apple saplings will survive. They're hardy buggers at the best
of times and I chose old native Irish tree stock in the hope they’d be fitting
for the climate.
So I
stand there and stare at the lake, the gradient of the lawn and then head inside
to watch the weather forecast. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Just more proof that you
can take the boy out of London but you can’t take London out of the boy.
Turloughs
exist almost exclusively in the limestone fringes of the West of Ireland. After
more than 20 years of living here, I’m now used to the idea that lakes will
rise out of completely dry ground, but when I first saw one, I was taken by
surprise in more ways than one: not only because this huge lake had suddenly
appeared in a perfectly dry field, but more because the summer before they’d
built a mini-village of holiday homes in that field, selling them off to
innocent American punters dreaming of cowslips, cold ones and bodhrans.
After
the lake rose, at least half of the houses were standing in water up to their
ground floor windows, and I couldn’t for the life of me believe the chutzpah of
the builders, who must have known.
“Right!”
said I to myself back then, “Never choose a place to live around here unless
you’ve seen the house in February!”
Anyway,
I’m off to get the WD-40 to spray that gate bolt. Have to admit, there’s
something strangely comforting about the blue bottle with the yellow label. If
I’m willing to ignore the rather uncomfortable fact that WD-40 is so called
because it was Dr. Norm Larsen’s 40th formula for a Water Displacer to protect
nuclear missiles; if I temporarily allow my principles to crumble into dust; to
sigh and absurdly declare “Nyoocleear schmoocklear!”, then I can comfortably
admit that I love WD-40.
To a
man who’s no great shakes at anything practical, the little spray has, over the
years, made me feel substantially less useless. I may not walk the macho path
of power tools, saws and set squares, but thanks to that little spray I managed
to score kudos as a young man.
Back
in the days when cars had engines, rather than the plastic-encased computers of
today, I lifted the distributor caps of many a young gal’s Cortina in pub car
parks. A quick spray of WD-40 on their contact breakers, a flying squirt all
over their spark plugs and a dollop on their coil and it was
“That
should do it darlin’. You can turn her over now!”
Broom
broom missis indeed. Chest hairs shooting out of me and a quick teenage snog
with little cheeky Kathy, all thanks to that little blue and yellow can.
Truly,
if there was ever a place and a time for WD-40, Winter in the West of Ireland
must be it. I’m standing out of the wind and rain in the old pigsty, which
serves well as a shed. The task in hand today is the hand shears, which have a
wobbly central bolt, thanks to my strongman small brain efforts a couple of
months ago.
The
Snapper had arrived home with some snowdrops, and in the absence of a crowbar I
repeatedly drove the shears into the ground and wobbled them back and forth to
make holes for the bulbs.
Effective
at the time, the tactic proved costly, as by the end of the job the blades were
wobbling around independently of each other. Life has never proved lucky when
I’m around and sharp objects are moving unpredictably, so I spray the bolt with
WD-40, loosen it out, tighten it up, clean off the blades and spray them too.
They’ll be rust free, sharp and swift in the Spring. The stuff’s safe around
electricity and even un-handy scribblers.
After
sorting the shears I make the most of my time in the pigsty, because it’s where
they all told me I’d end up. I spray my bicycle chain and the rusty bit on top
of the handlebars. It’s pretty dry in here, but nowhere stays completely dry in
the depths of a County Galway winter.
The
Christmas tree stand retired to the attic with a spray of WD-40 over its
screws, so that next year turning the little blighters won’t require me to
perform an excruciatingly painful combination of limbo dancing and
pixie-wrestling.
Last
Thursday’s storm clean punched the metal mailbox from the fence, leaving it
sprawled on the lawn yards away. I’ve wiped it down, stuck it back in place and
now, I think the only thing left to spray is the mailbox key. There - sliding
in and out as nature intended, were it not an inanimate object.
Enough!
My colyoomistas deserve better than ranting product placement lectures. I’m off
to walk the dog. At least I would be, if the bloody zip on my coat would do up.
Lady’s
bouncing off all four paws in excited anticipation, but the zip is, oop no,
dammit. Hang on, I know what’ll work on that zip...
©Charlie
Adley
04.01.14.
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