Auchterarder

On Tuesday, we all set off from Exeter for Gleneagles (Auchterarder) for at least two weeks of labouring.

There are six of us - from Mig Manpower, Exmouth - basically labourers at the beck and call of Ian McHay, the site foreman, a tough, well-built bull of a Scotsman. No-nonsense and initially angry at our puny, pitiful efforts at participation.

The project is run by Arena Structures, specialists in temporary exhibition marquees, tents, buildings, etc. We are sub-contractors/sub-contractees and at the very bottom of both the hierarchy and the building. The main structure is a vast, temporary barn, 150ft wide and 100ft high, which seems to come in one enormous kit, like a giant model from a toy shop. It is three weeks in the making, one week in use - as the media centre of the G8 Summit, Gleneagles - and then three weeks in the dismantling.

There are sundry other structures, of varying sizes, all on the site of the Equestrian centre, opposite the Trades entrace of the Gleneagles Hotel, the famous, legendary golf course. Several policemen patrol the site, keeping an eagle eye on all of us, lest one of us should be a terrorist planting a bomb (which would not be very difficult, were you that way inclined). In the early stages of its construction - though with all of the main structure assembled, its vast steel and aluminium girders in place - the whole structure wobbles, as if dismayed at its future role under the gaze of the world's media. It could all collapse, just like the forthcoming shenanigans of the Summit.

When the structure is in place, the plastic roofing and walls must be put in place, the job of Mick, the fifty year old Irishman. When you have done this a hundred times, it must be easy, but we have little understanding of what goes where, etc.; it is like arriving late at a house party where you don't know anyone. The sheeting is contained in big red plastic covers - like a hot air balloon kit - placed at precise points around the structure, about thirty in all; or perhaps like scarlet serviettes around a dinner table.

Mick has the voice of a tenor, booming, and it echoes around the place - he must be hoarse - usually from the top of a mobile crane, 100ft up in the heavens. We remain on the ground, awaiting the next command from on high, however. When Mick's work is nearly complete, the building has a series of vast white sails dangling from 100ft gables at each end, like a ship ready to set sail.

They have little patience with us but continue nonetheless. McHay is to Mick as Bush is to Blair; the one is more powerful than the other (one is a superpower, the other a vassel, though they both need each other in order to survive).

The secret is to do this ten times then you know where you are; you become the tent itself rather than a little pin in the base. The air is filled with the coarse groan of diesel generators, the reverse warning beeps of numerous industrial vehicles and people shouting from one end of the building to the other; most have become adept at their own unique form of sign language, however, as they communicate various instructions.

There are Polish, Portuguese, Germans and any number of foreign workers here, each relying on the sign language, a sort of lingua franca of tent monkeys and foreign workers. McHay, the site foreman, speaks a tough, crude brogue - it all sounds Glaswegian to me - which I, surprisingly, have little trouble understanding.

Meanwhile, the policemen - in their yellow, flourescent tunics - look on, hands in pockets, just familiarising themselves with each new face; how many people are new today? can we trust those three who arrived the day before? It could be the building on the Pyramids, a mammoth task, long ropes covering the entire structure, attached to workers at each end.

Well, this goes on for twelve hours everyday, even in the driving rain, which has been persistent for two whole days now. Everyone is waterlogged, yet the show must go on; it is a wonder I haven't yet gone down with pneumonia. Just the occasional thirty minute break, when everything comes to a halt for a well-earned rest. This is just long enough for a little excursion into Auchterarder, 1 1/2 miles down the road and the Co-op for refreshments, cigarettes, etc. We converge on the Co-op like starving seagulls on a trawler yet refuse to acknowledge each other, for that would be to become over-familiar. Most have removed their yellow flourescent bibs and blue hard hats, yet we all know each other from twelve hours, daily, in close proximity.

After two days of rain, everything is saturated, including the 'team spirit' which is close to leaking at various stages. Even the simplest of tasks - like picking up a PVC door - becomes a juggling trick, slipping through the fingers like a block of ice. Wooden blocks, however, begin to weigh like steel; 2m steel stakes are gritty with the sand of the equestrian show floor, enough to rake and shred one's hands, particularly when one's gloves have gone missing.

Outside, the thoroughbred horses trot around their reduced compound/field, chomp grass and mutter the occasional neighing, awaiting the return of their freedom. I chuck the remains of my apple, a little titbit of equine empathy.