Every time I visit the mother-in-law, or she comes to visit me, there’s a conversation about meat pies. It’s not me who starts the conversation either, I’ll have you know. If I’d married some working class heroine from some lovely part of Preston I’d maybe understand it, but my mother-in-law is a fairly well-to-do surgeon’s wife from over here in America. There’s always a slight tone of incredulity, if not in my voice proper, but in the voice inside my mind that keeps quiet about her so-called pie passion. Of all the things to fall in love with in the north of England, she had to become a fan of the growler. Time and time again she badgers us about getting hold of some, even though she’s only had them the once at our wedding reception.

So, it seemed only right and proper after grilling her about her obsession to pick some up while we were over in the UK this Christmas just gone. It’s one thing smuggling perishable meat pies through customs, and another having your illegal meaty contraband confiscated after a weed-addicted sniffer pooch with the munchies starts dry humping your luggage. Especially when you’re convinced that your mother-in-law is talking about the humble samosa.

“Operation Meat Pie” involved sending my mother to the the same butcher’s shop we’d got the original pies from and to get the buggers vacuum-sealed so they’d keep as fresh as three dozen growlers bought on a Friday in Nelson travelling to the backend of Ohio could possibly remain. I don’t think it’s a requirement the butcher had really adopted into his business model, but he did make a sterling job of the vacuum packing side of things. However, he did request to remain anonymous just in case an over zealous customs official collared me and I sang like a canary.

Like I’d throw him under the bus. Not that they travel up Railway St. these days anyway.

So, with stage 1 of “Operation Meat Pie” complete, I could rest easy that evening knowing I could pop out for a pint and a curry Butler Sheetmetal power meeting with John and Matt and get a power nap in before we embarked on our journey back starting at 5am the following morning.

Anyway, we got round to talking about favourite customers, and Matt chimed in with a nice little poaching tale that started around fifteen years ago when they both worked at Sovereign Sheetmetal where Matt was the foreman. One day he happened to be outside and some guy drove up asking for directions to Nelson Sheetmetal. They got to chatting and Matt asked him about the job he wanted doing and if he could take a look at the drawings. Now Matt is a sheet metal worker’s sheet metal worker in that he’s fluent in the art of technical drawing interpretation. He can read a drawing and throw solutions out there quicker than you or I (especially I) can explain a job. And he took one look at this particular drawing and told him that the guys at Nelson Sheetmetal wouldn’t be able to do it and to come back to see him once he’d been to their workshop.

No sooner said than done and he was back. It wasn’t a case of bad-mouthing the other firm, just that Matt knew this lot and their capabilities like the back of his hand. And from that moment on they’ve thrown this type (and other types) of work the way of Matt and Butler Sheetmetal. But to hear Matt talk about the guy in such glowing terms with regards to his own sheet metal knowledge and understanding, you’d be forgiven for thinking that Matt would be more than happy to fabricate their stuff for free. He has nothing but the utmost of respect for the guy’s ability to talk shop. I’ve never heard him talk about anybody like that other than Desert Orchid. It’s like some weird sheet metal soul mate thing.

After his touching ramble relating to the only customer he’s ever truly loved, we had our curry, popped backed to John’s popped-up, and managed to get back in at 2.30am.

I’m too old to be playing this three hour nap thing before travelling between continents for a couple of days. Once of a day you’d print a t-shirt and wear it as a badge of honour, but nowadays it remains etched underneath the eyeballs like a scar. So, at 5am - worse for wear and slightly bleary-eyed - I rang a taxi picking some number off the top of my head that I hadn’t used for well over a year. It goes to show what kind of a life I used to lead when the voice on the other end of the line goes; “Alright, Woody mate. How’ve you been.”

I didn’t even know which bloody taxi firm I’d rung. It’s not often I’m truly amazed by a bit of customer service, but I was amazed by this bit of customer service. But, like Matt and his kindred sheetmetal spirit, customer service doesn’t really do it service as a description.

Anyway, we managed to wedge our thirty-odd pies into the second suitcase and off we went. One taxi ride to Manchester; a train down to London Gatwick; a plane to Detroit; twelve signs, three customs officials, and a frisky dog telling you not bring meaty produce into the country; another plane to Cleveland; a drive to Elyria; a drive down to Wheeling; in the freezer for a few days; and finally whisked over to my mother-in-law’s near Columbus.

Seriously, heart transplant patients don’t have their goods shipped as meticulously or carefully as this. Although they probably don’t have to wait quite as long.

As for my mother-in-law’s response as Stephanie spread forth her meaty bounty before her (I was going to say booty, but that may not have scanned quite as well this side of the pond)?

“Oh, I didn’t mean those meat pies.”

If only we knew we were moving in more illustrious circles then we could bang on incessantly about them. Apparently we did some stainless steel tree rings that were to be inspected by Her Majesty not so long back, but nobody deemed it newsworthy enough to tell us what they were for until way after the event. Bless ‘em.

But if we’re not rubbing shoulders with invisible royalty then we’re tickling the odd palm with one of those peculiar handshakes. Apparently, that truckload of powder-coated planters we sent down to London a couple of months ago were to be housed in an old Masonic Lodge. As this picture testifies:

Most of the pictures we take tend to be of them in the process of being made or being shipped, and it’s generally up to the kindness of a client’s heart should we receive any pictures of our planters once they’re planted up. But, with this lot we’ve had the rare opportunity to get a series of pictures of them actually being planted up, which makes for a change.

You can view plenty more from where they came in the planter set here.

The finished set of planters in situ are going to look rather impressive I think.

Well it was all a bit too short and a bit too whistle-stop. Also remind me never to be so cheap as to fly in every direction of the compass when you’ve only got a week off. I’m not set out to be a jet setter. I’m not so much still in a different time zone as a different calendar. Still, a great time was had by all even though it was all too brief.

Besides John’s Christmas lunch, which I knew was going to be fabulous (the man has always been able to cook better than he can weld), my personal Christmas highlight had to be watching my sister put his backside to the canvas during not one, but two bouts of Wii sports boxing. If I’m being honest he’d had something of a torrid time all afternoon at the hands of his offspring as they opened one can of whoop-ass after another, whether it was Wii sports bowling, golf, tiddly winks or turning the thing on. Even my 89-year-old Gran thought she could take him on - and that’s without the sherry talking.

At least nobody picked up a nasty nunchuck knock

But watching two grown adults, nunchucks in hand, punching fresh air is a bit special. Watching John galloping on the spot like he wants to saddle up and ride his pony is exquisite. Then watching the galloping gourmet get a swift lesson in the finer arts of pugilism off my sister - well, that’s priceless. But don’t bring it up if you ring him up at work or pop round to see him. Like I say, he’d roasted his parsnips to perfection and they may have been lying a bit heavy thus restricting his normally fluid movement.

Him and Matt were also kind enough to take Steph and myself out for a pint or two and a curry the Friday night before we we had to be up at 5am to get ourselves back down to London the next morning. It’s been a while since we had one of our power business meetings, but we managed to lay the course for the next 18 months as John, Matt and myself took it in turns to blow smoke up each other’s buttocks. Still, it had been thirteen months or so.

But, we’re looking forward to 2008 being far better than 2007. 2007 started with Craig dying, middled off to a rather large unpaid debt being forced on them, and finished with their sister and secretary, Deborah, having to have her thyroid removed - although that didn’t stop her being the queen of Wii tennis on Christmas day - well I didn’t want to be the queen of Wii tennis did I?

So really, the debt, although quite a size, is put into context; and I wish Deborah all the best in getting well tout suite as they’ll be moving into their new premises this next couple of months and she’ll need to be fighting fit to do some laying of concrete or some other such crap.

Here’s hoping for a none-too-eventful 2008.

I won’t stop long seeming it’s Christmas Eve and we’ve all got more exciting and pressing things to do.

I’m wondering if I’m the only person floating around excited by being in Nelson for Christmas. Unless, of course, you’re after buying one of the cheapest houses in the coutry, according to a new housing study. (It’s almost sweet how everybody is referring to the place as ‘affordable’).

Santa’s-eye view of Nelson, Lancashire.

But, other than just spending 29 hours on various planes, trains and automobiles I’m raring to go. Obviously John had to come and pick Steph and myself from Chorlton Street bus station in Manchester, and it was a good job, too, considering my mother didn’t know where it was and confessed that the use of a GPS would be a bit tricky as she has no conceptual awareness of 100 yards. Still, at least John got to show her the finer parts of Manchester as he has more than a conceptual awareness of Canal Street and the surrounding area considering the bus up from London was running well over an hour late.

It’s been over a year since I hit these shores and Britain is almost unrecognisable to me - since when did people complain about toilets on buses being unusable due to blockages? Although it was referred to as being “pretty full up” as opposed to a blockage. I was even more staggered by the coach driver’s response when he stopped at the next available services.

Anyway, I’m really looking forward to a family/Butler Sheetmetal Christmas (well, they are one and the same to be fair), and hope you all have a very Merry Christmas, too.

As with many smaller sheet metal companies, there tends to be quite a bit of sub-contracting that goes on. Obviously, the smaller you are the less facilities you have in-house. And the busier you get, the more sub-contracting out you need to do.

So, it’s kind of important that you find half decent companies that have a remote idea as to what they’re supposed to be doing. We don’t have any in-house facilities for powder coating, so any planters that require a colour need to be done elsewhere. Now you’d probably think we were very lucky bunnies if I told you that the unit right next to Butler Sheetmetal Ltd housed a small spray painting operation. Then again, anybody who knows the bunch I’m talking about would have us down as total lunatics if we ever used them.

I remember hearing some tale about a guy taking a set of gates to be spray painted as a panic job only for him to find the gates in question that he’d so lovingly crafted sat in a blazing skip when he returned a few days later. The bungling blasters had painted them the wrong colour and were trying to remove the coat via the medium of fire. A year after hearing the tale, the gate guy became a drinking buddy of mine and I recounted the tale without knowing he was the gate guy. The tale had so much more of a zest to it direct from the horse’s mouth.

Anyway, I’m not going to start babbling about their utter ineptitude as it’s worth an entire blog in itself. But do keep your hand on the proverbial dial in case I ever spill the beans on somebody getting arrested for shot-blasting the wrong bridge in Scotland during the rush hour, or regale you with stories involving classic cars having their roof nearly ripped off due to positioning said car with a forklift truck’s forks through the windows so painting the thing would be a bit easier.

However, the term useful idiots spring to mind as they at least remind you what kind of operation to totally avoid.

The Butler boys recently did a rather large planter job for somebody in London and I think I recall the odd email between the powder coating firm and John fizzing through my inbox. I got an email last week with a few pictures of the planters leaving the powder coaters - Trevon Industrial Finishings in Colne. And, as John succinctly put it in his correspondence: “They really pulled us out of the shit with this one and did a fantastic job.”

Faint praise indeed. Now I have quite a pedantic eye when it comes to finishes, and I have to say that pictures do show a very good paint job. And the bottom line is that the customer is awfully pleased as well and will be sending us even more pictures once they’ve been planted up.

You see, it’s all well and good taking credit for a job well done, but on this one Trevon obviously went above and beyond the call of duty and really helped us out to the point that we’d have been in quite a hole otherwise. The customer isn’t going to care where you get the things painted, powder-coated, or finished. All they care about is the finish once they receive the finished article(s) - and quite right too.

It’s just that you might not be deserving of all the credit lavished upon you. Unless we deserve a pat on the back for sourcing the best industrial finishings company this side of Manchester that is.