Without knowing anything about them, I accidentally signed up to join the masons, recruited by a bloke who came round to fix the boiler.
I did let him know that I’d never actually done any masonry before, except once misusing a masonry nail on a plasterboard wall.
Chuckling, he said that was fine. “Your masonry skills will not be tested,” he assured me.
After giving him the small joining fee, he told me when the next meeting was and gave me an irritating handshake before leaving the house.
Simple as that, I was in.
I turned up at the hall on Tuesday evening, as directed, and was confronted by a bunch of men, mostly in their late middle-ages and upwards. It felt like walking into a gathering of politicians. In fact, most of the chat was based around politics, power and money, with the odd bit about plumbing thrown in.
I tried to join one of the chats, talking about an art exhibition I’d recently been to by a groundbreaking female Scandinavian artist; how moved I had been by a film installation of an elderly person shelling nuts. Every one of the masons in the group looked at me blankly, blanker than any look I’d ever previously been witness to.
Following a few further damp interactions, it quickly became clear that masonry was not for me. After graffitiing the wall in the toilets, I slipped out through a side door, taking with me the goblet they served the wine in, which was quite nice.
The next morning, I messaged the plumber to ask for my subscription money back, telling him that a new opportunity had come up.
Once I received my refund, I reinvested the money in the Beano fan club, which was much more my crowd. For that subscription, I received a fluffy Gnasher badge, which I wear with pride.
Since attending that meeting of the masons, I’ve become a bit wary of shaking hands with anyone who can’t be bothered to trim their nose hair.
vss #69
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