But for the terminally bored, the skirting in place.
You may notice that the knot problem has been avoided by the simple practice by the old man of only replacing about a foot length. Sigh. I thought he'd at least take it back to the first join - it's only about another foot further on. Which is precisely why I washed my hands of the thing as soon as I'd handed it over.
Our differences in working practice came to the fore over the weekend as well. A small matter of putting a wee sheet of acrylic over the inside of a door to try and up the insulation a bit. I like to prepare the tools needed ahead of time, and try and get the right tool for the job. If necessary I'l stop and go and get the right tool for the job.
He likes to "crack on" and add an extra level of frustration and likelihood of botch by using whatever's handiest. Thus he insisted on trying to cut the mitres in some plastic trim with a Junior hacksaw. Not in itself a crime, but the bluntness of the blade was murderous. Which naturally resulted in the roughest mitres you can imagine, which he then wanted to trim with his penknife. By the time I'd gone to go and get some files as more suitable for the task, he'd already made a dog's breakfast of most of the joints.
Did he have the correct drill bit ready for the brass screws? He did not. Another trip to the workshop for yours truly. Came back - you did line up some steel screws of the same size to pre-cut the threads, didn't you? No. Back I go to the workshop. And so on. And his concept of a screwdriver that fits the slot is laughable. And it's not as though I haven't personally bought him more than one set of new, smart screwdrivers in every conceivable size. It's enough to make you scream.
Eventually I shooed him away and finished the job myself, 'cos it was less stressful. I love my dad, really I do, but please, please, don't make me have to work with him...