In 1979, the position of Mrs GOF became available for the second time after management found it necessary to terminate the unsupportive, disloyal and disruptive services of the incumbent.
In anticipation of a stampede of candidates seeking to fill the role,
I took the liberty of drafting a job description, mission statement, and applicant selection guidelines that were significantly more rigorous than those which applied to the original hastily accepted applicant.
Near the top of this document (Item 2, section (c) to be precise)
was the following non-negotiable requirement;
"You must possess the proven ability, or exhibit a willingness to learn how, to mix concrete."
Unfortunately, upon perusing this document, the entire horde of eager young supermodels and hot-to-trot starlets milling around my front doorstep surprisingly and quite hastily beat a retreat in search of some other piece of less demanding masculine hunkhood.
And just as well that they did so too, because I was then able to snare the most competent feminine concrete mixer the planet has ever known.
Mixing good concrete is an art. Different applications require delicate adjustments to the relative amounts of sand, gravel, cement and water used. Foundation concrete for example requires a higher proportion of cement than does a garden paver, retaining wall or a replica of the Statue of David.
Being able to producing the perfect concrete mix is one of the truly great accomplishments of life.
Mrs GOF has mixed it on sheets of flat iron and in buckets and wheelbarrows, but her ultimate moment of exhilaration occurred on one day in 2006 when we were able to afford a genuine Chinese concrete mixing machine.
(something to do with a single gross error of judgement she made in 1979)
Her euphoria derives from manufacturing a mixer bowl full of concrete with perfect consistency.
When I return with empty wheelbarrow, having just sculpted the previous load into some distant garden item of GOF artistry and see her, my equal partner in creative pursuits, shovel in hand, with smiling head rotating at 25 RPM in sync with the machine, I know that I will have yet another exquisite batch of raw material with which to work one more aesthetic masterpiece.
And, when the job is finished, I find her irresistibly and sensually covered in sweat and cement dust with work boots coated in half-set concrete.
The God of Compatibility was looking after me in 1979.
(Ed; I think GOF must be missing his absent little concrete-mixer mate.)