It dusted us over, an’ it dusted us under.
No, it wasn’t a dust storm on the American prairies.
It was me, with my angle grinder.
I’ve been chiselling away at the granite and concrete plinth that runs along one side of our dining room for a couple of weeks. I did a long stint a week ago, had a few days off doing other jobs and planned to pick up the hammer again this morning.
However, we had to get some paint at a DIY store on Sunday and, while we were there, I spotted masonry cutting discs for an angle grinder. They were only a couple of pounds each.
I had a brilliant idea, or at least it seemed so at the time: I could use the angle grinder to cut grooves in the granite and concrete, insert the cold chisel, whack it hard with the hammer and split the stone away more quickly.
I bought three discs.
This morning, with the Other Half cleared off to work and the boys off to school, I set to work.
I started by taking the pictures down. I moved the fruit bowls, candles and lamps, and radio. I moved the furniture out of the way. I closed the cupboard doors and drawers where they were slightly ajar. I moved the drying washing through to the sitting room and closed the door.
Next, overalls on. Safety boots on. Gloves on. Mask on. Ear defenders on. Visor on.
One last check to ensure I wasn’t going to cut anything important and…
Clouds of dust.
Voluminous clouds of dust.
Dust in my ears. Dust in my eyes. Dust on and in my clothes. Dust on my visor. Dust on the walls. Dust on the ceiling. Dust in the corners. Dust on the sideboard. Dust on the floor. Dust on the table. Dust on the chairs. Dust. Dust. And more dust.
I blundered through the dining room and into the kitchen. I spat in the dusty sink. I picked up a dusty glass, opened the dusty fridge and pulled out a dusty bottle of water.
Glug, glug, glug.
Much better. Now I had only a mouth full of mud.
The airborne dust cleared a little.
I could now see. Somewhat.
Dust had gone from the dining room into the kitchen. Dust was in the utility area.
I opened the windows. And the back door: it must have looked like the house was on fire as the cloud of dust puffed outwards.
I opened the bathroom door. More dust.
I opened the living room door. More dust. Yes, even on those drying clothes.
I checked the main bedroom, behind another closed door. More dust.
I went upstairs. Less dust.
Sigh. So much for that good idea.
I went back to the dining room, shutting the doors behind me.
The house was now thoroughly dusted over so a little more dust wouldn’t make a difference.
Three discs later I’d cut a third off one granite block and put an inch-wide, half inch deep cut through two others.
Hmmm. The idea definitely wasn’t so good.
I picked up the sledge hammer and started smashing the house, sorry, the dining room floor to bits.
This time I did make a difference and removed half a dozen blocks of granite.
After picking up the pieces of granite and concrete, I spent the rest of the day dusting. Dusting. Dusting. And again, dusting. I also vacuumed. Dusted. Polished. Dusted. Washed. Dusted. Mopped. And dusted some more.
Not surprisingly, when the OH returned home this evening all she noticed was dust.
Oh well. I’ll have another bright idea soon…