I'm not Australian. I don't therefore go round calling people 'mate'. I do mumble a bit, and while it's not exactly The Queens English, I'm reasonably literate. That is until you're in the company of tradesmen. These are men who fix things that men like me can't fix. Things in my own house that I've either broken, or failed to understand how to maintain correctly. They come into the sanctuary that is my home, with their rigger boots, tool belts and techno-know-how and take the role of Top Dog on my patch.
And how do I respond...by talking bollocks, speaking with the equivalent of a swagger, substituting know-how for pseudo bravado. And I called him 'mate', hoping we could be drinking friends, but instead is the equivalent of me rolling onto my back and asking him to tickle my tummy. Runclub later and we're running round in circles up on the top rugby fields. Short recovery stuff. It's swelteringly hot, sweat is pouring and flies biting. Then home and the best shower for a few weeks. Hot, steamy and then some. I should have called him weeks ago.
