Heavenly Beverley : How to Annoy a Mechanical Fitter

We have enjoyed a very busy long weekend at the East End Gallery. This particular Monday holiday is in honour of the Queen's Birthday. Who actually has her birthday in April. The rest of Australia celebrates the Queen's Birthday in June, whilst we in Western Australia earn a holiday for WA Day. Except Western Australia wasn't settled in June. Australian public holidays tend to have no relevance to their titles. For most of us, a public holiday is merely an opportunity for a prolonged lie-in, a chance to socialise with family and friends, and if the weather is reasonable, an excuse to fire up the BBQ.

Our steady stream of guests was augmented by the arrival of one of our artists, Brian Aylward, swapping over his artworks. This necessitated an edit of the Gallery catalogue. I had also been contemplating some movement within the gift shop, so a re-write of that catalogue was also on the cards. Given Michael's hospital stay and recovery, we decided against a wholly new exhibition, choosing instead to release an updated spring catalogue.

Other artists were coming and going. A couple from Toodyay with family from South Australia. We had also been contacted by two Perth artists who came up to paint locally on Sunday. Gail and Shirley then brought in their paintings to show us at the Gallery. They had produced two exquisite landscapes of Little Hill, which they promised to finish and return to the Gallery for the Beverley Heroic weekend. We were thrilled.

Anyway, I've digressed from the actual point of this post. Michael's primary mission for the long weekend was to install a self-closing device on the double doors to the main Gallery. I was fed up with a multitude of blowflies entering our beautiful space whenever we left the doors open. Then they would insist on dying in the most visible and public parts of the Gallery. Hence, Michael's quest to keep the enemy hoards on the outside of the gates.

We had acquired the means at Bunnings on Thursday afternoon. Regrettably, the issue of firewood collection became the priority, due to our rapidly diminishing stocks. Once this was accomplished (with the welcome help of Ryan, electrician to the stars) Michael was ready to tackle the job of reducing the numbers of flying fiends coming in through the open door.

Michael's plan was to quickly and efficiently execute this task. Almost immediately, he was stymied by the enclosed directions and associated drawings. Try as he might, they were unhelpful in the extreme. A whole afternoon passed with a great deal of bad language and a rapid rise in irritability. Eventually, in a fit of pique, he gave up and grumpily drove off towards the House that Rocks for a revitalising glass of two of vino.

He was furious. A mechanical fitter is supposed to be able to problem-solve. He is also a metal artist and prides himself on his ability to think outside the square. This door closer installation had completely stumped him and he was not happy.

In spite of his ill-humour, Michael slept better that night than he has for quite some time. He woke, more refreshed, and determined not to let this job get the better of him. Arriving at the Gallery, he assisted me in the exemplary hanging of Brian Aylward's three paintings and David Mizon's magnificent photo of the Wandoo forest, Then, with a steely resolve, he revisited the door closer project.

His first action was to ignore the written instructions and diagrams and check out the device itself. He looked long and hard at it, turned it over, manipulated its mechanisms and clinically worked out how the closer could attach to the door. Needless to say, there was also much trial and error and frequent loud expletives. I ran backwards and forwards picking up screws and other bits he dropped whilst perched on the ladder. I also held my breath from time to time, hoping that Michael's natural ingenuity would triumph over useless instructions.

Which, of course, he did. Finally, he was victorious. The door closer was in place and carried out its allotted role perfectly. We opened the door, and if by magic, it closed itself. We were both ecstatic that Michael had finally won the war.

Last evening, after drinks and discussions about a commission with a Beverley local, he resembled the Cheshire Cat, reclining in his favourite spot on the couch. The idiot box was at full blast. He was relaxed and content and justifiably smug.

His only remaining thought was to send a sharply worded e-mail to Bunnings, in order to complain about the worst directions and illustrations known to Man.