Few know that but July is migration season for construction workers and thus this hard working fellows decide to move north to find some cool weather and shelter from the harsh southern sun.
Strangely, they do not do that for mating reasons ( they do mate well through the year long) instead they do bring tools and keep on the work as soon they arrive.
My father did not interrupt this tradition and, after following me in Brussels he continued this curious ritual.
I was at loss of walls to build though ( I did not Yet tell him of my cellars) thus my unstoppable parent diverted his attention to the Boiler room and the kitchen floor.
Boiler room? What boiler room?
I did never talk about it ( you know, it is not that sight to behold) but between the kitchen and the bathroom there is a small boiler room in which I do usually store ( in a pretty much anarchic way I have to state) soaps, brooms and the laundry basket.
The floor was covered with the usual gray tiles and, in the middle, there was a concrete platform for the old boiler.
Being the old boiler no more and having replaced it by a wall mounted model, we looked at the sad state of the floor and decided to cover it quickly with other tiles.
As you can imagine, nonetheless that my father brought his technical cunningness, his unbreakable tools and his unending coarse language vocabulary he still needed some help.
Guess who's the winner?
Here we go...
Once we broke the platform and replaced it by a clean concrete slab, me and the cussing construction site chief started the task of cutting the tiles.
Tiles that proved immediately too much for the machine we brought, and thus we had to do with our old , noisy friend the grindstone.
Once everything was cut and adapted, here is the result.