26th September 2013

Full sun on a roof isn’t exactly paradise, unless your paradise involves sweat trickling into unmentionable places, a vocabulary of industrial-strength expletives, and a constant fear of plummeting.

We began full of optimism, lining up the metal edging to frame the end tiles. First came the fiddly layering of bitumen beneath, then the cut–position, hammer dance with the lats. David balanced on the ladder, 15 metres of fresh air yawning beneath him, while I clung to the rafters like a pigeon who’d lost the knack of flying. Somehow, against the odds, we got it all in place. With swelling pride, David laid the end tiles and three neat rows beyond. From the ground, it looked… well, positively professional.

And then we tried sliding along the roof. Disaster. The metal edging had shifted, just one measly centimetre, but enough to doom the entire angle if we carried on. Cue heated debate, followed by the inevitable: tiles off, lats up, metal repositioned. Soul-destroying, yes, but roof law is merciless.

By now, I was down to shorts, a bush hat, and sunglasses, boldly risking splinters in places no splinter should go. Lunch was abandoned, far too hot for food, so we glugged water like camels. A blessing, really, since we’d run out of beer; otherwise, tragedy would’ve struck before the ridge tiles.

The afternoon did bring a couple of amusements. First, the postman arrived with a parcel for David: strobe lights destined

for the loft to scare off squirrels. Realistically, he’s about to host the first Balkan rodent rave, give it a week, and we’ll hear the Bee Gees drifting down from the rafters. Then, as if choreographed, a battered van rolled up with two decidedly dodgy Bulgarians flogging “tools” that practically had nickable merchandise engraved on them. David sent them packing with a glare that could curdle milk.

Back to the furnace-roof we went, determined to make up time. We laid a long run of lats and tiles, only to discover, of course, that one lat was off by 3cm. Another debate, another grim acceptance: off came the tiles again. And since we’d been daft enough to stash 80 tiles in the neighbour’s garden, each correction involved the tile equivalent of a half-marathon.

By the time we nailed in the final lat, the sun had dipped, the sky was black, and we could barely see our own bruises. Defeated, we slunk off the roof. Salvation came in the form of a new bar in Dryanovo: cold beer, surprisingly good food, and, hallelujah, a rare dark brew. Spirits restored, we collapsed into bed by ten, snoring like the disco squirrels we’d soon be hosting.