I was in the shower this morning when M came in, and said with an air of finality, “I’m not lending you my sander anymore.”

I yelped. On Friday, when I’d been sanding the caravan, I had no problem with the disc of sandpaper that was already attached to the sander, but when that got encrusted with caravan crud, I changed the sandpaper. But… the disc wouldn’t stick to the pad, and kept flying off relentlessly. I tried another disc of sandpaper. Same deal.

Now, I was very careful about all this, as last time I borrowed the sander the sandpaper flew off and I spent some minutes sanding the caravan with just the pad of the sander, thus managing to destroy any sandpaper clinging facility that it possessed. Because this is what had happened last time, and because I had to make a confession to M what I had done, this time I was more than careful. I did not once put the pad of the sander anywhere near anything but the back of the sandpaper.

Did this help when I explained it all? Not one bit. Even when, lathered in soap and shouting at the level of about 40 grit designed for rapid removal of material, M was unmoved. My shower shouting became irrational, and began sounding like,

“Stupid De Walt [lather, lather] I thought it was good, I thought it was my friend [lather, rinse] will never [scrub hair] bother with any high class tools [fumble for conditioner] ever again. Need stupid cheap sander [wait one minute for conditioner to condition as Melbourne’s water level sinks lower] – need own sand [rinse] although that will probably hate me too…”

And now I have a headache, and have had to telephone M to say sorry for being shouty. Gah.

* – title demonstrates ongoing relevance of Grease the musical to contemporary life.