AN INDEPENDENT REMEMBERS
Getting this cabinet was a watershed moment for us
A Black & Decker treasure chest, a medical mix-up, and flying gas canisters – all in a day’s work, as our independent hardware man takes a step back in time with part 34 of his stories from the shop floor.
L
ast issue I mentioned a Black & Decker jigsaw
that was
dead on arrival. Our experience sending back faulty items
through the wholesaler was a joke. Clearly, we needed an alternative if we were to keep our customers happy, but our nearest Black & Decker service centre was half a day away. But then, the shop’s own 7.25- inch circular saw packed in.
Like a spare part? I did some preliminary tests for fuse and cable damage, and came to the conclusion that the fault was likely to be the switch. At the time, the boss had been only partway through cutting some 18mm chipboard, which we finished off with one of his WW2 Disston handsaws. Okay, so we could have used the old nine- inch overhand rip snorter that I’ve previously mentioned, but the teeth kerfs weren’t the same size, so we’d have wasted a whole board. The defunct saw was quite a bit over 10 years old and we couldn’t afford a new one, so I phoned the B&D service centre, just in case, hoping that new switches were still available. And, yes – a new one arrived in the post the next day, and that very saw, with some later restoration work, carried on for another 30 years.
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Then the service centre manager got back to me with a very special offer: a free Raaco storage cabinet literally stuffed with Black & Decker spares could be ours for less than £200;
gears, screws, brushes,
representing a much higher discount than the usual 10%. It contained loads of stuff, such as switches (but not one for our saw, mind),
brackets, cord protectors and more body parts than Burke and Hare. There were also window stickers to tell people that we had all these magical thrills that would fix their drills (and chainsaws and jigsaws and the like). Getting this cabinet was indeed a watershed moment for us and, after only a few months, I would know every item in there and be able to quote the model numbers each part fitted. Yeah, sad, I know… but damned useful!
Easing techniques We had a tradesman called Brian. He didn’t seem like our usual sort and was keen on research and theory. (My wife says I must be careful how I describe people.) He would explain to me the theory behind a certain task, even down to details, such as which grain direction to run with first when using a router (he pronounced it “rooter”). Now, routers were an expensive power tool and he’d needed to hire one for
this particular job. I remember him being a bit miffed because the hire tool shop made him buy the router bit outright and, in those days, they were priced like spare parts for the Crown Jewels. When the boss wasn’t within earshot I would discount Brian’s purchases. Why? Because long before I arrived on the scene, the boss had sent every single tradesman packing. We don’t need to discuss the folly of such a policy; suffice to say that I was trying to ease some of them back through the door. I felt especially bad for Brian when he explained that he didn’t have his own transport and used buses to travel between jobs. In those days there was no problem as they were as regular as if you’d taken a cocktail of cascara, prune juice and liquid paraffin. Incidentally, a rather elderly lady once brought a washed- out medicine bottle for me to fill with paraffin. I told her the smallest government-stamped measure that we had was a half pint, but she told me she only needed a bottle’s worth so she could get to the bottom of her constipation. I filled it for 30p. “Ooh, that’s six shillings!” she screeched, appalled. I’ll never forget the sight of my boss chasing along the street after the old lady who was about to mix an explosive cocktail that would be more appropriate for clearing a
sewer. I mean, how was I supposed to know that paraffins were different?
Rockets galore One day, Brian just happened to mention that he would soon be getting his driving licence back. I was shocked, and distinctly remember the look on his face when he saw mine. I thought he simply didn’t drive. Apparently, some years before, he’d had an ancient Austin Mini van, and had one last job to finish before getting paid so he could afford its MOT the following day. He’d only just been able to scrape together enough cash to have his brakes sorted that afternoon. So, returning home from his client’s, with a rear brake light blinking like an indicator, he was spotted by a police car that signalled him to stop. Now, this police car was driving too close, so when Brian mistakenly slammed on his brakes, the diminutive little ex-passion wagon stopped dead on the proverbial pinhead. That’s when two large gas bottles he had in the back shot forwards, bounced off the front seats and shot out of the double doors like torpedoes from a nuclear submarine, embedding themselves in the white car’s bonnet. The police didn’t take kindly to unsanctioned modifications to their vehicles and threw everything they could at him, most of which stuck.
12 APRIL 2019 DIY WEEK 19
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