Of Sawdust and Manhood

Regular readers will be familiar with the state of the summer in England this year. Wet. Very wet. As I write this article on July 13th, I sit hearing the rain thumping against the window and contemplate switching on the central heating.

We had a dry day last Saturday but on a very wet wicket. I volunteered to pick up some sawdust on the way to the match to put on the crease and prevent the bowlers slipping over. (You are right to detect some self-interest).

This sounds like a simple and mundane task but it always fills me with dread. Why? Simply because the only place to get a decent quantity of sawdust is in a builder's yard. I loathe these places in the same way I loathe car spares shops. The root of my loathing is in the fact that I know nothing about DIY, building, or anything that requires the crack of your bum to poke out of your trousers. The people that work in those places ALWAYS expect you to know exactly what you want, especially if you're male. If you don't know that you want exactly fifteen three quarter inch self tappers with a crosshead then they treat you like an idiot.

So I walk up to the counter in the builder's yard, draw myself up to my full height, puff out my chest, smile, cock a jaunty eyebrow and in my deepest very English voice say confidently:

"Good morning. I have a cricket match today and need a bag of sawdust. Can you help?"

The woman behind the busy counter simply pointed at me, then pointed to a different area of the counter and gestured that I should move. I did, rapidly reducing in height as I took the seven steps of shame to where she was now sitting.

"That's for trade love" she said. I still don't know what that means.

My embarrassment was compounded when she said I needed to go to 'Timber' which was over the other side of the yard. I went, and did not need to look for the sideways glances that the 'trade' people around the counter were exchanging.

Eventually, having fought my way through racks of tools and other building equipment that meant nothing to me, I found the timber counter. I stupidly tried the same approach, which doubled in stupidity as there were several people behind the counter and they could all hear my enquiry.

"Good morning. I have a cricket match today and need a bag of sawdust. Can you help?"

"No saw mill process here now mate" came the reply.

"Er...does that mean you have no sawdust here at all?"

"Nothing. All done off site now" he smirked. Yes, he smirked. He smirked as if everyone in the world except me knew that his sodding saw mill processing was now conducted elsewhere.

I left. Quickly.

Even driving off the car park was not easy. There was a system where you were stopped at a barrier and quizzed about your purchases, and you had to show your receipt. The guy on the security gate was exactly what you would expect. Big, officious, and at a swaggering ease with his work. My explanation of why I was there and why I'd left with nothing elicited several contemptuous sneers.

A flash of inspiration saw me driving across the city to a garden centre. These places sold wood didn't they? Maybe some of them cut it to order and had a pile of sawdust I could scoop up and take away?

I approached the counter where a twelve year old girl stood waiting.

"Good morning. I have a cricket match today and need a bag of sawdust. Can you help?"

"Er...how big a bag do you want?"

This sounded hopeful. I made a wavy sign with the flat of my hand at about my midriff. She looked concerned and led me to the pet section.

I know for a fact she had deliberately called her Dad from outside just to watch me leave.

The tall deep voiced sportsman was skulking out with two women's handbag sized bags of sawdust usually purchased to line the floor of hamster cages. Each was adorned with cartoon depictions of Jerry Gerbil and Ronnie Rat and I swear even their toothy grins seemed to mock me.