I'm still infatuated with a mason who worked at our house one time. I doubt he ever really existed. Dreamy.
Let me walk you through this romantic 50 Shades of Cement...
He rang the bell and I opened the door. He didn't look like a mason: well dressed, clean shaven with impeccable combed hair and a case for tools. I showed him to his floor. He brought pencils and markers, rulers, a compass, etc. The guy reminded me of my course in industrial/technical drawing.
I lived a floor downstairs of the floor he had to build. He was punctual, consistent, and silent. I didn't hear a thing while he worked and yet I would go up at the end of the day and appreciate the progress he was making. I didn't find broken bricks or sloppy cement/sand/water traces. It was clean and precise, and the guy was a ninja.
I didn't have his contact information but I would have referred anyone and everyone to him, whether they had something to build or not. I must have told this story like a grandpa tells tales of his youth.