Behold, My Beautiful Bathroom ... Finally!
The Age
Wednesday June 19, 2002
A wet-behind-the-ears home owner discovers the trials and tribulations of a building project. He now knows the true meaning of "No worries, mate, she'll be right"
When it comes to renovations, I know everything. Or more accurately, I know a plumbing contractor, who subcontracts renovation jobs. And he knows everything.
Let's call this bloke Mick. That's not his real name - all names have been changed in this article to protect the innocent, or at least protect me if Mick reads this.
I've known Mick since he was about three. He was always good with his hands. I use past tense because he severed the tendons in his one of his arms with an electric tool on a roof. That's why he became a plumbing contractor. Now, he can tell someone else to go up on a roof with an electric tool and sever the tendons in their arm.
I figure if I need any tradesman-type work around the place, then I should just call Mick.
He's the only bloke I call when I've flooded the place fixing a washer or need to replace one of the million rusty pipes that hide in the walls of our ancient, solid-brick home.
I always insist on paying full price, to which he 'generously' agrees. He charges like a wounded bull, actually, but the job is always done properly and he will fix things if I'm not happy.
So when our bathroom walls started to leak into the hall cupboard and the shaving foam refused to go down the plughole any more, I figured it was time to call Mick.
Mick comes out, looks at the bathroom and says: "No worries."
He then asks me if I want to do the laundry, too.
I shrug.
He sends a quote a few days later - $10,000 for the bathroom and $5000 for the laundry. "That's plus GST," he says.
I tell him he's got the job. "That's minus the laundry," I add.
The quote sounded expensive, but it included a new cedar roof, tiling to the ceiling, a vanity, a super-dooper shower and Mick's guarantee.
There will be no problems, I confidently - and naively - assure my wife.
Mick rings me the next day. There's a problem ... evidently, you can't get decent tradesmen in November, December or early January because they are all on holidays.
I use this line all the time now in the pub. As soon as anyone vaguely mentions anything to do with repairs, I always say: "Of course, you can't get a decent repairman around Christmas."
It never fails to get the group nodding their heads wisely in agreement.
I tell Mick to put everything on the backburner until late January.
I know the job is back on track when I'm awoken about 6am one day by a loud bang. I stagger to the door and standing there is a big bloke who asks: "Where do you want it?"
It takes me several moments to realise he is referring to the huge rubbish skip he has on his truck. It takes me several more moments to realise I am standing there in my jocks.
I gesture vaguely at the driveway and go back to bed.
My wife later informs me that the driveway is not the best place for a skip if you have a car in the carport around the back.
The plumber and his apprentice arrive soon after and, much to my surprise, work quickly, if not quietly, stripping the bathroom, pulling down the roof, sealing the walls and installing new pipes.
Mick gives me a call to say the carpenter will arrive the next day and set up the framework for a new sliding door, followed by the tiler in the afternoon.
But the quick start proves a false dawn. The plumber forgets to bring the architrave, so when the carpenter arrives, he goes ballistic and storms out without another word.
Joe the tiler then arrives and, being a more laidback chap, shrugs his shoulders and leaves silently.
A call to Mick, who informs me: "No worries, Fred (the carpenter) will be back this afternoon."
No appearance from Fred. A call to Mick. "No worries, Don (another carpenter) will come on Sunday."
No appearance from Don. Another call to Mick. "No worries. I'll come by myself on Monday with Don."
Monday morning, I'm awoken by the clattering of timber. It's the return of the prodigal carpenter Fred.
A call to Mick. "No worries. I talked Fred into coming back."
I don't ask about Don.
Mick arrives with the tiler, who promises to start at 10am tomorrow.
Mick pulls me aside. "That's tradesman's time, mate. He'll be here around 11."
The phrase 'tradesman's time' goes into my pub vocabulary when Joe arrives around 12. He tiles a wall, gets my hopes up and then puts his screwdriver through a pipe and floods the place.
"Never done that before in 10 years of working," he assures me with his now-familiar shrug.
I'm just lucky that way, I guess.
Joe puts in a 'smart' tile, which allows the water from the shower to drain away.
Then an apprentice arrives to seal the walls and floors to prevent leaking. The sealant is a lovely blue colour, which matches the colour of our faces that night when we try to sleep through the fumes.
The apprentice didn't know what to do with the 'smart' tile, so he did a smart thing and rang his boss, who did a not-so-smart thing and broke it. It was repaired, but not without another night of toxic fumes.
The next trick is to track down the prodigal carpenter, who had decided it was a good time to go surfing.
Then, magically, the pieces all fall into place. The carpenter is found and does a speedy and impressive job on the roof and door. The plumber installs the massive vanity and towel rail (both purchased after the usual runaround). The shower-screen man comes and measures up and installs the screen and mirror (after the usual runaround).
Then the electrician installs the light/fan/heater unit (without the usual runaround ... my wife thinks he must have been new).
And in the twinkling of a tradesman's eye - or eight weeks in real time - my beautiful bathroom is complete.
Now for the laundry ...
© 2002 The Age