If you want to get ahead, get a hat…
Entry posted by G and J in The house itself.
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That was an advertising slogan from the 40’s and 50’s, which persisted in popular culture into my childhood in the 60’s (I’m a wrinkly, but not that much of a wrinkly). And oh boy, with the recent downpours we desperately needed a hat on the house.
As kids we used to turn the phrase around - “if you want to get a hat, get a head”. That’s what counted for humour back then. But like all my frivolous tool purchases over the years that turn out to be really useful if not vital during this build, so that phrase became immensely apposite. Our timber frame paddling pool needed a head to put a hat on.
In the case of our design ‘a head’ meant a full set of trusses, all braced as per, a layer of OSB (a softy southerner version of sarking), anti everything mesh closing the continuous ridge vent, the eaves bunged up with timber, and the flue hole cut and the attic bits of the flue in place and the final length ready for erection.
Rolly the chippy and I had discussed in great length how to put the trusses up. They were in a pile on the upstairs floor needing the bird’s mouths to be cut. We concluded we needed more hands to do it. At this stage we both nod, look round, remind ourselves that we are alone, then stay silent till one of us gives in and says “shall we give one a try anyway? See how we get on?”.
That’s the danger of two peeps working together who each refuse to believe they can be beaten. So, Rolly cut the bird’s mouths on three trusses while I pointlessly thought through different lifting options for a pair of old codgers whose combined total age is 140 years. If only I’d bought a chinook.
Anyway, there we stood, each end of a truss, silently psyching ourselves up. That was brought to a close by a series of half sentences, which we took turns to utter. Things like “well, we could lift this end onto the plate, then, ummmm….”; “would a rope, sort of….”; “could the scaffold tower help with, maybe, erm….”. We were facing certain defeat, or at least, the need for help. Where was my octogenarian neighbour when we needed him. Visiting friends in Europe, actually.
So we did the only thing left to us, we applied good, old fashioned BF&I. (A core skill of mine, as it happens.)
We fluffed it twice, each time returning to the starting position. I’m not sure an onlooker would have been able to discern any difference in approach between the three attempts, apart from facial redness growing by each failure. But attempt three worked. Hussah!
We sort of repeated the same process, each time making small changes. By the time the eighth truss went up, as I mopped up the blood (I’d bashed my nose) I wondered what on earth we’d found so difficult.
Rolly then did his orang-utan impression, while nailing the bracing on to give us a firm set of trusses to build from while I tidied and generally fussed, pointlessly. It’s amazing how a couple of well nailed cross members stiffen an otherwise wobbly set of timbers. That done we continued getting more trusses up. With each one it got easier with practice but harder with less room to work with, ending up with three trusses bunched at each end that we walked to their position once all was up, Rolly on the scaffold outside, me on my tower inside. Simples.
By the end of that day we had got all the trusses up and braced enough to get through the expected storm, v pleased.
Not so pleased about the next day though. The forecast was dire so Rolly stood down and I tried to have a Tidy Friday. However most of the weather missed us so it ended up a day wasted in many ways. The only really good bit was the roofer popping by allowing a discussion about gable verge and soffit details - that went well, or so I thought - with the roofer happy with our design and booked in to felt and batten us next Thursday.
Monday we got the rain we were promised for Friday. Sigh. Dean, the neighbour, turned up to help just as it started hammering down and I’d put the kettle on. Obviously we blamed him for bringing the rain with him. I fed everyone biscuits but had none myself (sniff) as our BCO turned up, and I discovered the recipe for a quick and positive BCO inspection. Try really hard to do good stuff; know one’s design intimately and by heart; and further than that, understand it at a micro level; and have the inspection done in pouring rain so it happens quickly.
I think the last bit overrides all the rest, but they’re still a good thing. We are lucky to have a BCO who is a nice guy, who is himself a self-builder, and who loves his job. Either way our BCO was a damp but happy man with our build.
Dean and I got a bit of the OSB sarking on when it dried up, while Rolly closed the eaves, so it wasn’t a complete wash out. Next day Rolly and I got a rhythm going and got loads of sarking up, using ropes for security, leaving just the top rows each side which were thankfully half bits.
So next day, with nearly a complete layer of OSB on, we discovered how useless sarking is at keeping rain out. Cue yet more depressing sweeping water off of the upstairs floor. Yet even in such circumstances illumination is to be found. Tony trays. You thought they were just for keeping the air in, but no! they are far more versatile: they keep the rain in too.
With a flat surface like an upstairs floor however fast one sweeps torrential rain towards the stairwell much of it reaches the walls. When it hits the Tony trays it is skilfully guided round the end of the joists and then down the inside walls. Of course, this is good news especially when one has carefully stored lots of stuff out of the rain, neatly stacked round the edge of the downstairs walls, as all that dry and dusty stuff gets a good cleansing rinse in pure rainwater. All my paslode nail boxes are now papier-mâché, which doesn’t bloody help. The best laid plans and all that.
And the delays meant that the plan was starting to look too tight. We had a day to get the rest of the sarking on and a few other bits and pieces done to be ready for the roofer. Cue the cavalry - which in Suffolk can be a helpful neighbour. Rolly did the clever woodworky bits while Dean and I got the top rows of sarking on.
Our scaffold is v thin on one side as we are so close to our neighbours, so I could only safely lay a ladder up the roof on the other side. We’d used a roofing ladder for the lower rows but that didn’t work for the top row as the hook was in the way of fitting the boards. So we laid a normal ladder up the roof, and then I laid on the roof, feet atop the ladder, while Dean attached each sheet to a rope and pulled it up to me to fit in place, first on my side then on the other. Worked a treat and with Dean holding the rope we had a backup against the gusts of winds which was never really used but was a comfort to have anyway.
Actual safety verses perceived safety is fascinating. As I lay on the sarking getting ready to pull up the next board, waving at a regular passer by (who took another picture), Dean took one look at me, perched on the top of the ladder and asked if I was sure it was safe. “No”, I said, “I’m at significant risk of bashing my thumb with my hammer”. If fall off the ladder AND I didn’t keep one hand on the top of the last fixed board I’ll collect the odd splinter as I slowly slide down onto the scaffolding. Our 40degree pitch means one cannot walk on the OSB but it did mean I could hold myself in place with one hand very easily. OK if I did slide I’d swear a lot but we’d have a laugh about it after. If I was monkeying about on a felted and battened roof the risk of falling through would be massively greater and much more dangerous.
In reality I was much more at risk of injury lifting panels on the slab - back injury, crushed fingers, etc. But Dean saw height and that triggered his ‘oh my’ function, (he’s American so he says things like that and “do the math”, and “oh shoot”, etc. bless him), whereas he and I lifting panels didn’t bother him one bit. Peeps (no names, no pack drill Rolly!) constantly leave stuff about which constitute trip hazards, and I’m regularly kicking them to the side or picking them up as I fear peeps tripping and the resultant injuries, which depending on what is there to fall on could be really nasty. Hence my obsessive tidying and my Tidy Fridays. It took me a while to realise if things get untidy I get a big knotty ball of anxiety in me that I just couldn’t turn off. But everyone else wanders past the mess oblivious. So my perhaps irrational trigger is disorder. Go figure, as Dean would say.
Once I’d put the last bit on I treated myself to a sit down with a view, on the ridge. I had been looking forward to that moment for many, many days. My favourite place in our current house is on it, on the ridge to be exact. The view is spectacular. Turns out the new pad’s ridge view is just as good. Sitting there, looking across the river towards the ancient burial mounds, even with the rain starting again, felt like the Pooliverse (any Perishers fans out there?) was telling me that it’s all ok, this is meant to be.
As the roofer arrived next day I was back laying down on the job, this time fixing stainless steel anti-everything mesh along the gap at the top for the ridge vent. I was very glad to see him, until that is, he asked about the gable verge and soffit details. They are as we agreed, I said, happily. Only it turns out that he had no memory of our previous discussion and anyway he’s a visual sort of guy, rather than a discussion with drawings, sort of guy. So I’ve simply no idea what he thought he was agreeing to the previous week, but we had to do the whole discussion again, this time with wood to mock it up.
Fortunately the end result was very similar to my original design, but sometimes trying to plan ahead and get things nailed down in advance in the building industry does feel like trying to buy spirit level bubbles - impossible, and at the same time a source of great amusement to others. That discussion was had on the scaffolding in bright sunshine. But grey clouds were on the horizon so that time wasted was bad news.
Two strips of felt later the heavens opened in one last assault before we put our hat on. I guess the Pooliverse has a sense of humour which is hard to appreciate as one sweeps and sweeps and sweeps endless puddles away. But the rain stopped and the roofer got back up there and we finally weren’t topless any more.
While the roofer roofed I carried on setting out my flue and while my back was turned Rolly threw up our internal upstairs walls. Perhaps he wiggles the end of his nose, that would account for the speed. We were slowed a lot by the joists being slightly not where I thought the plans showed them to be, (“what do you mean I can’t cut through a pozijoist? I’ve big saws, of course I can!”), but a small (40mm) wall shift sorted the flue run and suddenly we’ve gone from wooden cathedral (micro version) to embryonic home. Albeit a damp one.
The week ended with just me doing my Tidy Friday bit and knocking off early for a bit of a low key garden party held by one of our new neighbours. I know our build has upset some a bit but, we are again, ridiculously lucky that the vast majority of our new neighbours are very welcoming and tolerant. The Pooliverse continues to be good to us.
Oddly, I then hit a downer, which is very ‘me’. I have no idea if this is an unusual habit, but when faced with the achievement of an important milestone I don’t feel like celebrating, I suddenly have the bandwidth to contemplate what’s left to be done. This time was a lot worse, as I suddenly realised that my time working with Rolly would soon end, and working with him felt really good. Funny old emotional roller coaster, this building malarkey.
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