No, the old roof's name is not Mort. I am assuming that you are all linguists or have very refined skills in making meaning from context.
The roofers are gone. All that's left is this neat pile of corrugated iron on my front footpath.
All my fears were not realised. In fact Geoff, the roofer, was in the tradition of old style craftsmen who eschewed nails in favour of dove-tail joints, who cleaned up after themselves and who had a fiercely understated pride in their work.
I asked Geoff whether he was going to seal the joins along the ridge-capping. He was agast. 'Beware of roofers who overuse sealant' said he. 'It's not gunna leak, mate. Guaranteed.' he said.
I liked him. I believed him. I gave him a carton of beer to show my appreciation.
Crikey you'd think I'd offered him a 50% share in a gold mine. He was totally taken aback. He thanked me three times and thanked Andrea, independent of me, another three. Perhaps customers don't say thank you as often as they could. Or this was the first time he'd ever done a job deserving of high praise - nah, that's far too cynical.
Now I await the next lashing crashing thunderstorm to test my judgement and faith in him.