> My dad was a brickie, y'know, Rob.
>
>
> 'Tis a small world.
>
>
> Best
>
> Dave
Brickies got paid more -- they were trained.
On the site, I was doing grunt work.
Robin
(My [think I told you this] grandaddy was a carpenter. Bloody awful one at
that. No wonder he entered the Ministry.
Which didn't cause me any problems, but it sure as hell did Dear Dead Dad.
When Father walked up the (Gilmore)Hill, grampa had been there (late
entrant) only ten years before. And everyone who taught my father had
taught grampa. And remembered him. Vividly.
Pissed Father off something awful.
So he took up snooker.
D2)
I mean, the worst I had was Hannah Buchan, who'd taught my mother and later
taught me.
Only, when Hannah taught Mother (in the forties), Hannah was in her early
twenties and used (so Mother told me) to sit on the edge of the lectern and
swing her legs.
By the time I got there, she'd compromised for this smelly and asthmatic
sheepdog which snored throughout tutorials.
Odd.
CP
Come to think of it, I irritated Hannah no end. There were three high
points.
The Dryden Essay ("DON'T read Mr. Morgan's article." So, natch, the only
work I cite is Eddie's "Dryden's Drudgery".)
Then there was Piers Plowman, which for some odd reason I subtitled with
quotes from the OED on "melange". Don't ask me why -- +I+ don't know.
But the worst (in my final year) was the Bradley Medal Essay. I don't know
what bugged Hannah more over that. My walking out half-way through (I was
supposed to be chairing a meeting of the Literary Society, and I was pushed
for time. Christ, if looks could kill ...) Or that I won it anyway ...
3O
|