Never Mind the Ballast

For a few fleeting moments I felt like I had pulled off the greatest single purchase in consumer history.

The euphoria and adrenalin helped me to stoop forward and tug along the flat bed trolley. I could not otherwise have shifted it because it was loaded up with a tremendously dense and dead weight. The small wheels misbehaved as I exited the retail warehouse. My forward momentum by that stage propelled me through the security scanners and it was with no little relief that they did not erupt into a cacophony of wailing sirens. There would be no following large soled footfalls or a large firm hand on my shoulder asking me to return to the store. Not that I assure you I am at all familiar with the procedure to apprehend a ne'er do well shoplifter.

It was only a few minutes earlier that I had entered the large out of town DIY emporium. Messrs Block and Quayle have evidently done well for themselves although I suspect that the Hedge Fund that bought them out years ago soon packed them off to do market research on tooling in the Tiger Economies.

It was rare for me to know exactly what I was there to buy.

The usual scenario is to purchase a few small consumables, typically light bulbs, batteries, masking tape and an expensive pack of polished, individually crafted and waxed woodscrews but to emerge blinking into the harsh daylight of a sunday morning with much, much more. It has on occasion included another pasting table, another yard brush, house plants, one of those clever connectors from outside tap to hosepipe and spare bulbs for the Christmas Tree Lights (in August). It will, for me, always be an expensive excursion. Suffice to say my tool box is positively heaving with multiples all of the smaller items just listed.

I was after one specific category of product with a slight variation in format.

The lure of the lighting, kitchen, bathroom, decorating, garden and miscellaneous fixings aisles was shunned with a quick march along the full length of the walkway and into the outdoor part of the Builders Yard. It was here that my determination and single mindedness wavered, but then again that is nothing new when I am out of my comfort zone. It also occurs in bicycle shops, shoe shops and the lingerie departments of the major High Street Department Stores.

How difficult could it be to buy 5 bags of sharp sand and the same number of bags of ballast?

One whole side of the compound contained pallets and racking with at first glance identical thick polythene pacakaging and wording thereon. Only upon closer inspection were the descriptions of their contents different. Coarse, Fine, Mixed, pea, pebble, slate (grey and plum), pentland cobbles, scottish rocks, alpine mix, aggregate and others too technical to dwell on.

I whittled my choice down to about four specifications, then three and then the final two. I just went for it.

The bags were very, very heavy. It may have been a bit of a con if sold strictly on weight as the bags were sodden through from being out in all weathers. I struggled to lift the sharp sand off the larger pile. Conventional lifting by grabbing two corners, a bit like an old fashioned Coal Delivery Man, resulted in a complete loss of grip of the wet bags and they flopped back like a herring into the North Sea. Scooping up in the middle and draping over my arm was a better technique but resulted in much of the spongey content transferring onto my clothes. In any other environment I would be stared at as having an incontinence problem. The trolley which I realised I needed was sourced from its current user who was down another aisle. Under the combined weight of 10 bags of the sand and ballast it took a bit of effort to get it to roll. Other shoppers dived for cover or were unceremoniously clipped by the juggernaut if they dared to linger in the main thoroughfares.

Fortunately I had reached the checkout in a brief lull in activity in the store or else the rest of the punters had seen my extraordinarily haphazard progress and delayed their own exit.

Ten bags, I explained, five of each type. The purchase was tallied up with only two sweeps of the lazer. I prepared myself for the grand total. I asked the lady at the till to repeat the amount. Ten bags, about half a ton of material, enough to grace the landing pit at any long jump or triple jump Olympic Final, sufficient to have been ejected down the trouser legs of fledgling tunnellers from a POW Camp, plenty to make a Meerkat feel at home if one happened to be passing, more than enough on which to spread out a beach towel and dream. All for just £18.

You can understand my subsequent haste in leaving the store and that feeling of sheer pleasure in the thought of putting one over on a massive global conglomerate with world wide outlets for the first time ever. I might even be banned if they ever catch up with me.