After a big day on the tools, when the work boots are dusted and the last screw is driven home, there’s nothing better than collapsing into my favourite spot. It’s not fancy — no designer chairs or five-star views. Just a well-worn recliner in the corner of my living room, tucked under the window where the evening light spills through in gold and orange. It’s the kind of comfort you can’t buy; it’s earned after a day of honest, hard work.
Today was one of those long ones. The kind where you’re soaked in sweat before the morning smoko, and your hands are blackened from grease, sawdust, and effort. Every nail hammered, every wall lifted into place, adds weight to the body but satisfaction to the soul. There’s something deeply rewarding about physical work — a sense that you’re building something real and lasting in a world that moves too fast. But make no mistake: by the time knock-off rolls around, your body is crying out for mercy.
That’s why this chair means so much. As soon as I walk through the door, the boots come off — sometimes with a grunt and a bit of a struggle — and I make a beeline for it. The seat is moulded to fit me now, a silent witness to countless nights of tired sighs and cold beers. My dog usually beats me to it, curled up in the adjacent spot, thumping his tail against the floor in lazy greeting.
With a cold drink in hand, I settle in and let the world slow down. Sometimes I just stare out the window, watching the last of the tradies drive past, their utes loaded down, their windows rolled down to catch the breeze. Other times, the TV hums in the background — the footy, a fishing show, or just some music to take the edge off the noise still ringing in my ears from a day filled with drills, saws, and shouted jokes across the site.
The aches in my shoulders and the calluses on my hands remind me that today mattered. That something got done. In a world full of talking, building is a kind of language of its own — quiet but powerful. And as I sit here, the stiffness slowly settling in, I know that come tomorrow, I’ll be back at it, hammering, lifting, solving problems one bolt or timber beam at a time.
But for now, I don’t have to think about any of it. I’m here, in my favourite spot, surrounded by the small things that make life rich: the smell of dinner cooking in the kitchen, the quiet companionship of my dog, the feeling of being exactly where I’m supposed to be.
It’s simple. It’s ordinary. But after a big day on the tools, it’s absolutely perfect.
