The slight bulge on the surface draws the chisel. Tap
of the mallet, and the sandstone explodes into
fragments, raining down onto the pavement below. As
the sun rises on this winter Saturday, the wind off
the mountains chills the fingers gripping the edge of
the cherrypicker bucket. "Left", my colleague shouts,
and we lurch perilously closer to the facade.
Scanning the surfaces of this decaying Skyscraper
Gothic edifice, we look for evidence of loose pieces
of stone.
I used to enjoy makesafe inspections. Something to do
with seeing the raw freshness of decay exposed; or the
revelation of processes. But now I've done enough to
be able to see the decay without opening up. And it
just saddens me to see the weeping sores appear on the
flanks of the building. Especially on this building,
for I've been doing makesafe inspections here for
seven years, and each year the symptoms spread. Some
preventive measures five years ago would have made so
much difference, but the money was never spent. And
now there is that invidious downwards spiral in action
... too much money required to pull together the
life-saving refurbishment and redevelopment; but not
enough money available to do any preventive work; and
so the deterioration gathers pace, so that next year
even more money will be required.
Meanwhile, my stonemason colleague has been tooling
off the thin scale - these days, it is water
penetration from leaking downpipes that is driving
most of the decay. Sand and tiny flakes of sandstone
shower us from time to time, as a stone that appears
intact disintegrates with the first tap of the chisel.
Below us, the city is stirring slowly to life.
Pedestrians pick their way around our barriers,
cursing at the inconvenience (little do they realise
how inconvenient it would be if we failed to remove a
piece of stone that fell to the pavement as they
passed). The time passes with the roar of the
cherrypicker's diesel, and we brush through the trees
back to the pavement.
Brief the young engineer who's going to do the rest of
this makesafe with the stonemason, and off I head
across the city to another site. Same age buildings,
similar stone. Better condition, and yet just as sad.
For though the tradesmen seem to be trying hard, they
don't have the experience to deal with the issues, and
again, the owner doesn't want to spend the money he
needs to.
The wind buffets the swinging stage as we haul
ourselves along the monorail into position. At least
we're in the sun. And in the park behind us, a
saxophonist breaks into soaring jazz riffs. We're
inspecting windows this morning. Revising the scope
of works, so that we only do the most essential tasks
(and the cheapest). Put the building into a holding
pattern, and we'll worry about it again some other
time.
We work our way along the facade, finding panes of
broken glass here, and areas of decayed timber there.
Concern from the foreman when we find that the infill
panels above the curved windows are fibro (asbestos
cement sheet). We'll need to change the work method
to manage that risk.
And then its time to change to another swinging stage.
Around the corner, and onto the next one. Picking
our way past open windows, we go to ascend, and the
stage won't move. Emergency stop button tripped.
Where's the key? Here. It won't go in. Let me try.
Oh shit. I've got another one. Try that. Doesn't
work either. What the fuck is going on? Maybe
there's part of a broken key stuck inside. Yeah,
could be.
Sit in the wind for a few minutes. Saxophonist is
still serenading us, unknowing how comforting the
sound is to us. Ponder whether to begin the long wind
down on the safety brakes. Then the foreman has an
idea. Radios a colleague to look for a broken swinging
stage key in the office. Five minutes later -
success. Broken key found. Next challenge, will this
work? Passed out through the window, fingers fumbling
with too much haste. The key turns, stop button
releases. Away we go.
Phone rings. "They've shut us down". City's rangers
have told the boys on the makesafe inspection to stop
work. Something to do with footpath permits I'm told.
"Hang on", I say. I'm on my way.
Run across town. Still wearing my harness and hard
hat. No wonder families look at me strangely. Cherry
picker is packed up, pavement swept. I curse. We
can't afford to come back another day. What happened,
I demand to know. Listen to conflicting explanations.
Look for numbers to call. Nobody thought to get the
ranger's name or number. Why can't people think?
Jump into my car, scream off over the bridge back to
the office. Where will I find permit conditions?
Onto the internet, check the City's website. Out of
desperation, call the office (who works in the City
office on a Saturday afternoon). Somebody answers.
Disbelief. Miracle. Its somebody who can make
decisions. We discuss it. He tells me to go back to
work. I turn round, head back. Another phone call.
Maybe not. Problem is pedestrian safety. We discuss.
I make promises (there goes my afternoon). Back to
site. This is the way it is going to be. The traffic
control guy has found some more staff. We reorganise,
the cherry picker repositions. Away we go. I watch,
eagle-eyed. Keep those pedestrians away.
Shut-down time looms. The boys are racing the clock
now. Trying to cover the last few bays of the facade.
Cherrypicker driver threatens to bring them down,
they plead for one more minute - we all know they want
ten. Eventually its all over. Down they come. Now I
get to sign away my life for another six months.
Thank the team for their efforts. No time for a beer
- they all have other jobs to go to. Such is the pace
of working in the city on a weekend.
------------------------------------
cheers
david
http://www.sold.com.au - SOLD.com.au
- Find yourself a bargain!
--
To terminate puerile preservation prattling among pals and the
uncoffee-ed, or to change your settings, go to:
<http://maelstrom.stjohns.edu/archives/bullamanka-pinheads.html>
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