A Blast From the Bunnings Bugle

I know what your all thinking. Where’s the Bunnings report? Who cares about his hangover, bugger his paranoia about the thought police. Whats the blow on the Bunnings Bugle. We want our report. Well, you know, one of Hugh’s friends found the O’Keefe blog by Googling Tommy Murphy. Imagine what might happen when some bored board member at Westfarmers Googles Bunnings, my name will be mud and who cares? Well I do! Sounds good really, Robert Mud, Mmmm. So here’s the much anticipated report and hang the consequences.
This Saturday was somewhat disappointing, not enough toddlers and babies I think but the pregnant mums and gays were well represented. Those mums, there amassing, they really do defy gravity. I like the way my job gives me the opportunity to talk to them but don’t worry I don’t ask for a touch, I don’t even want to really, it’s enough for me to just bear witness. The new character I’ve noticed is the Merchant Banker, let’s call him Clive, who wants to fit his own gate. He complains that all our gates are fifty millimeters wider than his opening. I have difficulty understanding that whilst he is quite confident of his ability to hang and catch the gate he seems so challenged by the concept of cutting twenty five millimeters off each side to make it fit. As we warm to one another he tells me of the space up the side of the house where there are lots of “um thingies” that he would like to protect his little treasure from and he wonders how he could fit one of those expanding barricades he saw out back. After some confusion I conclude that an expanding barricade is lattice and suggest that he put a post at each side of this, passage to peril, and nail the so called expanding barricade to it. This he finds quite beyond comprehension and his blank gaze as I attempt to explain inspires me to reflect thus.
In another time, not so long ago, this guy was the new middle class, or upper middle class really, he’s probably pulling ninety grand at twenty seven. In that other time there’s no way he could have even contemplated fitting his own gate, his class prevented this, priding itself in having no knowledge of such mundane endeavors, indeed there was another servant class between him and the trade that effected these things so that he did not even have to think that he needed it, it just was, and his treasure was safe.
I suggest that it’s a credit to our democratic traditions that Clive sees it as a lifestyle decision that he fits his own gate, he feels he’s identifying or rubbing shoulders with his clients or constituents or what ever. He’s chuffed at his next BBQ to be able to show Nigel his handiwork and pass on his expertise. Bunnings is also chuffed as whilst having been able to sell its shoddy wares to Clive and probably Nigel as well, they have not disturbed the trade of Bob the builder who Clive’s wife eventually employs, when Clive’s interstate, to fix the bloody mess, hopefully before the little treasure meets her / his demise amongst the “um thingies”. A win / win / win situation you could say.
Clive of course drives a BMW convertible similar to the one I saw laden with the three eight by two foot* lengths of white melamine (*more on this expression later) expertly secured with octopus straps one from the number plate to the arial and the other from door catch to quarterpain the eloquence of which only inflames me with jealousy. Who cares if a sudden braking maneuver sends all through the windscreen, it’s insured and anyway I only use the old bus to go to Bunnings on the weekend.
*I’m somewhat perplexed to use these antiquated, (or so I had thought) terms of measurement although “two point four meters” just dosen’t seem to convey in my mind’s artist’s mind the eloquent of “eight feet”. Nonetheless I still struggle with the need to use this antiquated and ridiculous system of measurement and shall seek here to justify this need. If said timbers had been two meters as apposed to six feet seven and a quarter inches I should surely have preferred the simple artistry of the two meters version but alas coming from a lazy land that converted from imperial to metric without making the effort to change it’s manufacturing practices we wound up with standard timber lengths such as one point two meters / four feet, one point five meters / five feet (probably the most eloquent conversion though not a very common measurement as it doesn’t apply to the dozen rule, another aspect of the imperial system), one point eight meters / six feet (very popular as a manly size) two point one meters / seven feet (not well respected generally though very common as a door way height), etc.
It’s Gabby and Adrian that I have in mind now as I plod further into this murky swamp of conversions, you who were schooled in the mathematical purity of the metric system will one day come to Bunnings for some six millimeter bolts or nuts only to be disappointed - as I know you have been before - when you discover the very limited range of Bunnings metric, as apposed to its massive range of imperial stock, and begin to contemplate whether it is better to adapt to thirteen sixty fourths or seven thirty seconds, the two imperial sides of six millimeters. Whilst contemplating this never loose sight of the fact that within the imperial range of thread sizes there are at least two and a half thread standards, see SAE, UNF, etc. “Why is it so?” I hear Gabb cry or is that Adrian? Well the answer is this. There is this behemoth called the USA the citizens of which, having been deprived of an education by their rulers - many still think of the world as a flat in the shape of Jimmy Baker - are not capable of understanding the intricacies of feet and inches let alone a conversion to another system let alone a system popularized by a wog named Napoleon. So fuck them I hear you say though I don’t like to hear that kind of language from you Gabb, and don’t try to blame Adrian, but I agree, fuck them, trouble is like most behemoths there bigger than us and despite their stupidity they rule this thing called the global market and they have this factory called China where everything in the world is made to their IMPERIAL specifications and that’s hard to fuck. The irony of this is that we don’t need to fuck them as they are doing an excellent job of this all by themselves. In the mean time they and their like minded global partners (here I wont name names) have to hire clever dicks like me (a clever Robert) to do their conversions. Viva La Stupido!
Just in case you’d thought the events of the last two weeks had taught me something let me here bring you up to date. On last Tuesday, completely unoverhung and taking care of business, I had a medical appointment at RPAH, 4.45 PM to take up a bit of the slack I’ve been giving the rest of you fellow Medicare levy contributors all these years. I decided to take the bike rather than any other form of transport as I figured it would be easier to park. With plenty of time to spare and Jonestown in hand I stopped in Newtown Park on this sunny afternoon to absorb some more of my prescribed vitamin D. Arriving at the bike rack opposite the hospital only to realize I had not brought the important bike chain. No worries, whizzed home, got the chain and back still in time for appointment. Heading home at about 5.45, still peak hour, decided to take back streets through Newtown. Riding down a two way, no longer than one of Bunnings isles and two car width with one car parked all the way a car turned in ahead and came towards me. Had I been another car the driver would have awaited my passing before turning in but what of course she saw was only a pedestrian attached to a bike that didn’t need much room at all don’t you think. Thus forced into the curb I made the bitter mistake of continuing to pedal and my pedal hit the curb and my steed once more bucked me. Coming down on the same left arm, no gravel rash this time, the only apparent damage to the back of the palm where my watch band bedded in. Later though I had very sore shoulders the left one noticeably swollen, though the ball of my thumb which had still been painful from the previous fall was remarkably repaired. Perhaps this is evidence of the theory that hitting yourself with a hammer say on the head can relieve the pain of the tooth ache whatever. I’m thinking of trading the bike in on a BMX then I won’t have so far to fall, whadd’ya think
Lots of love fellow bloggers,
Robert