Low-tech coach restoration (4)
When I was a boy I hated The Weasel with all my heart. The Weasel was our maths teacher and to me he was the prototype of the Evil Teacher. When he taught he got all worked up and saliva formed at the corners of his mouth, and he would walk down among the desks while talking and suddenly pounce on you and slap his hand into your desk and hiss “Am I RIGHT, or am I WRONG?!”
It was a rhetorical question of course. We were expected to confirm that we was right, and we always did even if we understood little of what he said. Because quite simply we were scared to death of the man.
One of The Weasel’s particularities was that – unlike any other teacher at school - he would not allow toilet visits during class. This became a big problem when one day I had the runs.
I put up my hand and asked to be excused, but he would not allow it.
A few minutes later I asked again and explained that I really needed to go, but he refused. By this time my mates were snickering and I stopped asking.
So for the rest of the class I endured the stomach cramps and the urge to go, horrified at the thought of involuntarily soiling myself in front of my mates - and particularly in front of a certain girl. It was probably just half an hour but it seemed like a lifetime.
When I finally got to the loo I sat there swearing revenge. One day Mr Weasel, one day!
They say that time heals all wounds, and that the best revenge is to live well. But they are wrong.
A few days ago, as I was finishing off the interior of my G20 Saloon, I spotted a figure in my parts box that reminded me of The Weasel. A devious plan formed in my mind.
Following the ancient rituals of Voodoo, I glued The Weasel to the loo. I did not paint him, because ghosts from the past have no colour.
I then fitted The Weasel in the lavatory of the G20.
I did not model any doors to the lavatory.
I did not model any water supply.
And I did not model any toilet paper.
I then glued a lid onto the lavatory.
So there you have it. The Weasel is now forever entombed in the lavatory of a GWR saloon, with no means of flushing and with no means of wiping his royal a***.
Revenge at last. You were wrong Mr Weasel, you were wrong.