TPT #3, PILLS.
A heatwave arrived that afternoon, during Goup Therapy in a sealed room. Walking back to the bus stop, we hoped that next week would be cooler.
It was much hotter.
The shrink refused us jugs of water….. “You just want to distract yourselves !”.
Refused to open the windows too. We sweated, removed jackets, etc “No more distractions !” Idiot ! the heat was the distraction….
Walking back to the bus stop, we decided to quit the idiot.
Then my own Doctor asked me why - “Your shrinkmate thinks we were there for His benefit”
“Hoho, that’s a good one ! I’ll have to give you stronger pills !”
Hallo Tipping Point….
“ No thanks, fed up with idiot Quacks, I’ll cure myself !!”
Opening the surgery door, Freedom Beckoned.
TPT #4. SHAFTED.
London, expanding, short of water devised a plan. Dig a tunnel, link two rivers = new reservoir. Ten shafts, ten pumping stations.
How do you dig a 280 foot hole, without the Norfolk clay collapsing ?
You sink a 33ft wide x 5ft deep reinforced concrete, retaining collar into the mud.
You dig a 30ft wide x 5ft deep hole in the middle, using ammonia gas to freeze the clay as you go. The crane lowers a sectioned steel shuttering, to assemble and grease. You make rapid setting concrete with 100 gallons of boiling water and pour behind the shuttering. The concrete instantly melts & replaces the icewall. Once hard, you remove the shuttering, dynamite the still frozen clay floor.
Repeat.
24/7, relentless, short handed.
13 to 37 hour crazy shifts at a time, 11 hours off.
The only experts are the two blastmen, everyone else is clueless.
BELOW, six men heaving clay into the crane’s bucket, which doubles as their access lift.
ABOVE, three mixermen, a 400 gallon tank balance on scaffolding over a fire, that is never hot enough to properly boil the water, no matter how many sodden trees you burn. No matter how many tarred pit props you sacrifice.
One mixerman gets the title of Ganger (aka, someone to blame). After every mix he climbs the hot scaffold to check the refilling level. Overflow = no fire.
Everybody on site hurls insults. The unceasing Winter Blizzard impedes progress. The scaffold sinks lopsided. Nightlights fail - again. Work never stops. Only Chuckhouse Charlie and the two foremen keep warm.
With the Ganger checking the top up, the rig collapses. The ganger disappears under the mud, immediately rescued by a flood of lukewarm water. Sitting up he discovers a pole spearing the ground inches from each ear. Cries of anger at the cascade rise from the pit.
The scaffold is immediately rebuilt, tank hoisted, fire relit, but the concrete pour is half a night late.
Over the mouth of the pit protrude two winching platforms, covered in mud and snow, from which hang a work platform. To raise the work platform a few feet takes eight men. two per winch handle. No safety rails.
One man slips half over, instantly grabbed by the mixermen.
The pay is good, and for xmas dinner you get a full one hour break.
The new crane op seems uncertain, brakepawl fails, big iron bucket plummets, spills the work platform occupants.
Five injured, one dead.
Hallo Tipping Point.
The Ganger Quit.
This story is set in the year that the British Government finally acknowledged the need for larger construction companies to employ a safety officer….. who’s recommendations were largely dismissed…… on financial grounds. Industry deaths remain under-reported.
N.B.
My health issues are on-going. I do not intend to stop publishing on Substack. More about this soon, Thankyou for your time, for being here, Maurice.
Missed this at the time Maurice! Hope you're feeling better!
Very evocative. They'd send children down mines and chimneys if they could.