Kit-set buildings: Opening the door to carpentry hell
Any jackass can kick down a barn, but it takes a good carpenter to build one
The reviews of the kit-set shed looked good; “Two of us amateurs put it together in two days!” An effusive outpouring of happy emojis followed this. We questioned the reviews initially but then allowed ourselves to be lulled into a false sense of security by the many happy words. We bought the kit-set shed and opened the door to carpentry hell.
Note: There is some bad language in this post. But, when attempting to emulate a builder, this is necessary.
K is the project manager of many things, one of which is setting up a glamping site as far away from the house as possible, on the edge of the most amazing lagoon you have ever seen. It will consist of a bell tent, composting toilet, outdoor bath, internal and external fireplaces, and… a three-bay shed with kitchen, hanging out area, and bathroom.
The three-bay shed we bought kit-set. As with all projects, there were issues from the start. I hate projects. They are basically a puzzle set from start to finish with pieces that random run away, catch fire, bite you, or sit laughing at you as you try to hammer them into what looks like the correct spot.
After shipping delays, prospective price increases, some damage from a certain courier company that shall not be named, a contractor being fired, another contractor being hired, and many other little challenges, the kit-set shed arrived several months late.
Here was the glorious shed, in pieces, granted, but on the ground after months of planning. Sitting there, innocently, wrapped in white plastic, like a giant lego set. She was going to be magnificent.
Weeks passed, and the contractor that was meant to come and prepare the ground was fired after not returning calls. This was a sad moment, not for us, but them, I imagine. Finally, a text response; “I’m sorry.” We knew they were busy, we just needed to know when they were arriving, and it became impossible.
Another contractor has been engaged, and if it weren’t for the weather, I am sure would have been here. Mind you; I think I spotted him over at my neighbour’s place today… You better not be cheating on me with my neighbour Brent! I’m sure he’s not.
Anyway, contractors, you know, they work on some arcane schedule that is part occult, part weather-related, a bit of whether the client will give them beer at the end of the day (yes, we do Brent, your favourite as well, Double Brown), and the whims of how they are feeling. It’s impossible to divine when an arrival date will be.
We plan to start on the kit-set building as it can be towed behind the tractor onto the correct site when it’s been prepared. We don’t want to leave it sitting in the paddock for months because of warranty issues. So we ask a friend of ours, Jeremy, to build it, with K learning and me playing, you guessed it; “the guy who picks stuff up and puts it down again someplace else.”
To digress for a moment, I run some software in the background while I am writing to keep an eye on grammar. I am particularly bad grammar wise when I get into a stream of consciousness article. The software has a “tone detector”, which analyses how the article is coming across to readers.
Here’s what is doing right now…
Isn’t technology amazing? I hate it so much.
Back to the story.
Jeremy is what I would describe as a craftsman. He’s like a Super Handyman. I have seen some of the things he has built at his own place, and they belong in Home and Garden magazine.
Last Friday, with a two-day break in the weather predicted, Jeremy arrived, and we started to unpack the material and lay it out. Immediately there are problems.
“That shouldn’t be like that,” said Jeremy, pointing at a long beam “it’s not straight and true at all.”
It’s not. It’s about as straight as a banana. This is not a good start. Some of the bearing beams are in the same shape. You can’t build a thing when the skeleton is not straight; it is Impossible.
“Well fuck.” I say, contributing my great carpentry knowledge to the discussion. I stand there with my hands on my hips and wait for someone to do something.
It is agreed. We can replace the timber pieces with non-banana ones, but I will have to take a work order to the timber store and bring back the replacement pieces. This is complex. There are measurements, things that must be cut precisely, and the correct treatment must be applied or something.
Off I go in the ute. The handy ute. The ute that the government hates.
I pull into the timber yard and get out. A salesman is having a cigarette by the main building. As I approach him, he starts to back up. “That’s strange,” I think to myself, “I don’t look that scary.”
Then it dawns on me I am not wearing my face mask. So now, being a bit flustered by the morning’s challenges, rather than saying, “Oops, sorry! I’ll just get my mask”, I instead stare at him and yell “, MASK!” Because that is what my brain is thinking.
Off I trot back to the ute with the guy, obviously thinking I am some kind of simpleton after bellowing “MASK!” at him. I’ve memorised what I want to not appear like I don’t know what I am doing. Which I don’t.
“I’m here for an order of 100 X 150 rough sawn timber by two at 3.8 and 3.4 in length.” I breathlessly rattle this out at speed, and the mask isn’t helping.
“You what now?” says the man, “Tell me again?”
Shit. I’d memorised it all the way there, but now I have rushed it out, I can’t remember a damn thing. “I have no idea what I am doing,” I admit, “I’m just here to pick up some timber for the builder.” Confirming my “pick things up and put them down again someplace else” status.
We sort out what I need and he finds where it is located. Of course, it is in the worst possible place to get to.
The forklift is employed, a quiet afternoon off the cards for the yard workers, tens of tonnes of timber is moved about, and after an hour, I am off up the road to Masterton to get more timber from another yard, memorising what it is I need as I drive along with the beams sticking out my back window.
Of course, the ute is unwarranted, on account of the fact I booked it in too early, then forgot to rebook it, and now I’m on the state highway. Great. More stress.
Second timber yard. I claim that I have an order here, as I was sure that was the message from K and Jeremy, and the first ten minutes is spent with all manner of people trying to find it. Then the message comes through from K, “Ooops. Not ordered, just ask for it.”
Bollocks. My credibility as a carpenter is being damaged.
I then go through the process of explaining what I need, and the yard man looks at me and nods, then asks, “Do you want it in H5? That’s all we have.”
What the hell is an H5? Shit. “H5 will be fine,” I say confidently, having absolutely no idea whether it is or not. It turns out it was fine. It’s how the timber is treated (see, I learned something), and H5 is the nuclear option.
Then the carpenter god strikes again, clearly annoyed at my impertinence and impersonation of a builder. None of the timber they have is straight. It’s all banana style. I tuck my tail between my legs and sneak home down the backroads in the un-warranted ute.
K and Jeremy have started without me, which is just as well, as I wouldn’t know one end of a piece of timber from another. All the timber is precut and meant to be labelled so you can follow the instruction sheet. This is not the case. Some are missing labels, and some need to be altered.
Between K and Jeremy, they are figuring out the first wall construction, and I set to pick things up from one place and put them down in another. This takes the vast majority of the day.
At the end of day one, over a beer, Jeremy says, “It’s bigger than I expected.” I think this translates to, “I wish I had read the instructions first and then ran a mile.” But he is tenacious and will be back tomorrow.
By the end of day two, the walls are complete. They weigh an absolute tonne, and we debate how we will lift them.
My duties for the day were more picking things up and putting them down in a different place and chef.
I am a much better chef than a carpenter. Lunch was wraps filled with lettuce, avocado, coriander, wasabi mayonnaise, and wild venison, finished with peaches.
Over a drink that night, K and I vow never to buy a kit-set anything ever again in our lives. I am sure that Jeremy is feeling the same way. We are set to carry on the next day despite the forecast predicting a “light shower” in the morning to the south of us.
At three am, heaven’s open, and it pours, waking both of us up. The whole day is a washout, and it rains until dark. Another 40mm of rain falls (in our driest month, which is now up to 350mm), and I head up to town to buy some massive tarps. Once the sun comes out, the timber will want to bend into banana shapes, so K wrangles the timber into piles and covers it in her wet weather gear.
Jeremy is away on holiday for the next fortnight.
FML.
I bet Jesus never had these problems; I thought to myself as I watched the rain and drank a whiskey. He’d probably just waggle his fingers, and all the parts would fly together in perfect divine order.
If he needed timber, he’d just magic it up from the nearest tree; no skill saw required nor treatment. In fact, he could probably just magic the best shed ever, filled with all kinds of awesome relics, like a neverending whiskey jug, because he is God.
Best, if the rain came along, Jesus would look at the clouds and say, “Off you fuck”, and they would, they would fuck right off. Back to wherever the clouds came from in the first place, probably Satan, because Satan would be really jealous of Jesus’s carpentry skills.
To be continued…
PS Jesus might be good at carpentry, but I make a better venison wrap.
PPS Pride goes before a fall, yes, I know. Sorry, Jesus.
Late-breaking news: New underpants.
One of the problems with all this running around a farm is finding supportive underpants. Things flop around all over the place, and when you’re in shorts, you don’t want bits suddenly appearing while you are picking stuff up and putting it down in a different place.
Thank god for K, ever practical, she’s found some perfect farm undies. I’ll write a review once they arrive and I have a chance to put them to the test.