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I shouldn't even be writing this. But I can't keep it in. Before you read on — just so you know. I'm not the sort of bloke who does this. Never have been. Twenty-odd years I've kept my mouth shut when things were rough. Sorted it myself. Never moaned. But three different people I told this story to in person all said the exact same thing: “Rupert, write it down mate. Lads like you think they're the only ones going through it. You're not.” So here it is. One time. No bullshit. Who I am My name's Dominic Fawkes. I'm 44, from Bristol. Grew up in Knowle West — proper south Bristol, proper working estate. Dad laid tiles his whole life. Grandad built roads. In our family the job wasn't a choice — it was just passed down, like the name. At 17 I started my apprenticeship in timber frame. By 22 I was a proper fixer with my CSCS card. By 30 I was running my own gang. Twenty-plus years grafting with my hands every single day. I don't romanticise it. You're up at five. Your back's fucked by the time you're forty. In winter it's that cold on site the tools stick to your fingers. But I like seeing something real grow out of the ground — rebar, wood, concrete. A wall. A frame. A house that people actually live in. It stays after you're gone. Means something. Two years ago I got divorced. Civilised, like adults should. Two kids — Jamie, 16, and Rachel, 13. I see them every other week. Child maintenance paid on time, every time. No discussion — it's just what you do. I'm renting a one-bed flat in Bedminster — £840 a month. Got a 2018 Transit, proper workhorse. I cook most nights myself. Friday night after site — one pint down the pub with the lads. Sometimes two. Lived simple. But with dignity, you know? What my month looked like Take-home pay — £2,520. For a senior timber frame guy with twenty years in Somerset and Gloucestershire — it's alright, but nothing flash. Rent — 840. Council tax — 172. Van insurance — 134. Diesel — about £160, jobs all over the place. Chil
