Working Class Man

We’ve got a driveway now.

I know, seems like such a small deal… unless you DON’T have a driveway. Fortunately, I have four-wheel drive, so parking hasn’t been a huge issue at the new BeachVille abode. A building company puts in stuff up to ‘the crossover’ (which sounds a bit like one of those psychic conventions) and then you fix the rest. It took a lack of ‘approach speed’ on Brad the Tradie’s behalf (crunch… crunch…) to have us say “Bugger it. Ring a paver! Get a tradie!"

I know what you're thinking. Brad the Tradie IS a tradie. He’s a Landscaper even. But he doesn’t pave. Too much bending over and painkillers involved. So, when in a new area, how does one actually FIND a paver? All tradies are on a ‘word of mouth’ system in this great nation…. So BtT rang the fence dude who’s currently deciding whether he might put our pergola up sometime before we turn 60: “ahhhh, maaaate. Do ya know a paver?” “Ohhhh maaaaaate. Pretty tight, but I reckon I might be able to make a call for ya…” So, after much consternation and with us thinking a great favour had been done,  suddenly there was Mal. Why do these people always have one syllable names? And a team of other people with one syllable names?

Mal’s lost his license.

Not his paving one (not sure you need a license to pave someone’s driveway). No, his driver’s license. I’ve heard of a few people being banned from our roads recently, and one has to be pleasant to the tradies at one's house, so I thought, to make small talk (leading up to a friendly segue that would include a request for Mal to put a shirt on), that I’d ask what had happened:

Blossy: So, Mal, no license. That must be tricky.

Mal: Yeah, we have to get Gazza to drive the work ute. He’s the only one left of us that’s legal.

Blossy: Right. Sooo… lots of speed cameras these days. That’s it huh?

Mal: Nah. Mine was DUI.

Matt (offsider): Mine was a Reckless.

Mal: Yeah, then I got done for drivin’ without a license and bein’ on the p***. I’m off the grog now but. Been dry for four months.

Blossy: Well, that’s GREAT. (thank Christ he’s off our roads… mental note to send thankyou card-lette to local police)

Mal: Yeah, I’m usin’ natural medicine now. Herbal. Coz I’m so jumpy like. Yeah, except that givin’ up the p*** means I’m smokin’ twice as much weed.

Blossy: Right then. Well, ummm… good luck with the up coming birth of your child  I hear you're having (thank Christ I won’t have to teach the brain-injured sprog).

Mal: Yeah man, they’re expensive. That’s why I gotta work you know? Like, I’ve got a Rotty and another dog to feed as well. And you don’t get no rebate from the government to have dogs. At least they pay ya to have kids.

Blossy: Yes, thank GOODNESS for that. Shame the weed’s not subsidised hey Mal?

So I left them to it with a bottle of coke and three plastic cups. BtT paid the team cash at the end of the day, "much appreciated thanks maaaaaaate", no doubt to be put towards the sprog’s edumacashon. Or drugs. Driveway looks good though. For a driveway.

Which brings me to tradies in general.

 I know I’m married to one, but I still felt VERY judgemental towards Mal and his crew. My tradie doesn’t spend his cash on weed. He buys his wife overseas holidays. Mine doesn’t live in a Vizzie vest and he’s a competent speller (and expert Scrabble player might I add). Maybe I just lucked it. He DOES have a one-syllable name.

Our neighbours on each side are what we, here in Beachville, call FIFO’s.

They’re tradies that Fly In, then Fly Out of mines in Western Australia. For those NOT in the know, many mines in this vast state are not situated in lovely places where dolphins roam as free as the sunshine. They’re in hot, dusty, horrid places where one’s wife will not move to. So FIFO’s go away, dig up stuff and fly back again. There's even a support group for partners of FIFO's. Like the Public Library, there's possibly free Arnott's Family Assorted biscuits involved.

We had afternoon tea with Jake the FIFO from next door the other arve. I call arvo tea in tradie-land a 'Six-pack and a Bogan platter.' I don’t bake muffins for these events, not like I would a morning tea for teachers. I don't bake Gingerbread Julia's like I would for my public servant brother-in-law.  Everyone knows that you don’t have muffins with a six-pack of JB or Corona. DUH. You have cheese, bikkies, some salami or cabanossi and perhaps…. only if the occasion calls for it… a corn relish or French Onion dip or a bag of  plain Kettle chips. That’s it. As BtT says, “Don’t be puttin’ any of that weird sun-dried tomato crap on there.” Or Blue Cheese. Colby & Cheddar are OK. Brie at a pinch. Jatz crackers but not Lavosh. Water crackers are OK, but not preferred. The rules of a Bogan platter are clearly defined. As a Tradie Wife, I'm advised to stick to the rules.

Whilst BtT was taking a call (Tradie’s always have to take a call…) I chatted with Jake:

Blossy: So, Jake, what is it that you do at the mine in Kal? (Kalgoolie for those not in the know)

Jake: Well, I was drivin’ dump trucks, but I’ve like stepped up, so now I get to blow up sh**.

Blossy: Ahhh. Well, that sounds satisfying. Is there a good career trajectory there?

Jake: Yeah. Hard rock. Gotta get the gold out. Always need good explosives experts.

Blossy: Yes, don’t we just. So you like it out at Kal?

Jake: Yeah mate. They pay for everythin’ except the p***.

Blossy: Ah well, can’t be havin’ you drunk whilst blowin’ s*** up now can we?

I learned a lot about our neighbour Jake the FIFO. Jake likes cheese. And he’s just bought a boat, so we’re all goin’ ocean fishin’ one weekend. Grrrrrrreat. BtT and I are thinking of installing a crustacean sink out the back in which to rinse the sealife before we eat it. Best not to do it in the house apparently. Jake knows these things. I believe him…. Truly. Crustacean sink is go. Possibly has even elevated in position of necessity above the 65 inch telly for the Home Theatre. Apparently Jake's wife Lara hates it when he washes the crabs in the kitchen sink, or the bath.

So the new rule in our house is that BtT gets to interact with the Beachville tradies.

They’re a bit more full-on than those I’m used to. And quite frankly, I think I scare them, not sure if it's the big words, the invasive nature of my questioning or if they can just smell that I quite like blue cheese.  One just shouldn’t ask, “What are you reading at the moment?” unless you’re prepared for an answer of “the telly guide”.

I am trying though.  I went to Target today and bought a new pair of leggings. They're black, so they go REALLY well with my grey ugg boots. I’m undercover, pretending to be a part of Tradie Land.

Pass the cabanossi luv. And get me a beer.

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Working Class Man - Jimmy Barnes, 1985.