So the last on the cork situation was that Saturday evening I poured mineral turps in eight holes that I carved out of the cork. Then I left that to soak overnight. Came back Sunday morning, PRAYING that I’d be able to practically lift the cork tiles off the subfloor. This is how that went.
Ya. That was all I got off in the first attempt. Slightly discouraged I poured another two litres of turp in those holes and let that soak and do its thing while I went off to rescue the hallway and master bedroom from carpet. Then I came back to the study to have another crack.
Ok, that’s a bit better now but around this time I’m running out of day, am fairly tired and am starting to make silly mistakes.
Like. Remember that time I accidentally tipped half of this bucket over and spilled lethal nails everywhere?
Or, HA, remember that time I sliced my leg open on the flat pry bar?! (Don’t worry mum, I’m ok). (That Son of a Gun is a LOT sharper than it looks, I tell ya).
Or that time when I knocked myself around the head with the broom? Ya. Good times.
Even though I wield a tool belt like a BOSS… I know when to call it quits. So I poured another four litres of turp on to the cork and called it a day. I figured if that won’t do it, nothing ever will. Oh by the way. NEVER smoke or light a fire any closer than 50 metres from our house.
Tonight I sent in the man. The Banker. The family member who wields the brain rather than hand or power tools.
He did alright.