I reckon wrecking beckonsns

Words can say a lot . . . as can people who use words in sentences I guess. But some words just suit the thing they were built for.

Words can say a lot . . . as can people who use words in sentences I guess. But some words just suit the thing they were built for. Like “construction”. It has a sort of planned and positive sound to it.

And “maintenance” has a comfortable watch and work it sound.

And then there is one of my favourites. “Demolition”. It just sounds right.

It sounds like things are being dismantled and wrecked and smashed and busted up and flung into a great heap for later removal . . . and to make room for some new “construction”.

And it gets my vote in terms of a pastime. For the art of construction requires careful planning and strict attention to what tools and materials are required to complete the job correctly.

Although when you hear and read the tales of leaky houses and shoddy construction practices where cheap materials are used, and used badly, you start to wonder just how safe the “systems” allegedly in place actually are.

And when things like great steel and concrete bridges and overpasses start to collapse in big cities in modern lands you really start to wonder if the word “construction” is being misspelled somewhere along the way.

I prefer demolition because on a modest scale it can be carried out with virtually no planning and schedule — you just tear whatever it is down.

Of course major demolition projects do require a cohesive and planned approach but the little jobs are (to me) a simple case of pick up the hammer and go for it. It’s dashed good fun.

So I was all too happy to carry out the removal of a rotting old stretch of fence down the back of the section to allow a chap to step up and carry out the more complicated construction chapter.

Ahh the sound of splintering wood and snapping cords which were holding parts of it up.

However, I felt obliged to call a health and safety meeting before embarking on it, as that’s what you have to do these days.

There’s an advantage to calling such a meeting when only one person is down to attend. And that same person has to call the meeting and officiate it.

So I inquired about how was my health going? “Yeah pretty good . . . no real worries.”

So that got ticked off and then I inquired about the safety factor.

“Yeah I checked the handle of the hammer and it’s pretty solid and I’ll watch out for nails . . . no real worries.”

I then informed myself (to my delight) that I was cleared to tear the ailing fence to absolute shreds. Safety equipment?

Yep . . . my old grey T-shirt, with the grease stains on the back, and jeans.

And sneakers . . . which I ensured were laced up correctly as one must ensure one does not lose one’s footing while flinging slabs of rotting timber into an ungainly heap.

So I smashed and tore and flung for a couple of hours and was not about to let the four metal stakes I came across, which had been hammered in to bolster the rotting posts, beat me.

I dug and dug and yanked and yanked and finally they came out.

“They” being half the ligaments in the back but, hey, a bit of that tiger balm stuff and she’ll be right.

At one stage I sought the axe as a couple of posts were bound by rusting wire and that was tremendous fun whacking them apart.

Gradually the pile of fencing flotsam and jetsam grew, and it was only after I put the hammer and axe down that I realised this was simply stage one.

For with any demolition project you are left with whatever it was you tore apart, except it’s all in a huge, ugly pile.