I have urges. Even at my age.
Urges to do what I shouldn’t. What I know is bad for me. Inappropriate. What I know better than to attempt. Recurrent blind-spots. Wilful dumbness.
Like taking a second slice of cake;
Or thinking I can still cartwheel;
Or offering to carry that suitcase up those stairs;
Or catching the lift instead of walking up one flight;
Or bungee jumping;
Or passing up the chance to use the lavatory after my second coffee and before we set off for her mother’s.
Sometimes the urges are thought experiments that are really beyond gormless. They evidence a complete and utter absence of gorm. For instance…
We have charging cables for iphones and tablets and androids and what have yous lying around. I read a tragic case of a dog that took the end of one that was plugged in, in its mouth… I wondered what that would be like. I know I’d probably die. Like the dog. But would I just be blown back across the room with what’s left of my hair on end and my scalp smoking? Like in a cartoon. Why do I even wonder? Am I mad?
Many is the time that I lead with my head. Currently I have a scab across my shiny pate about an inch long and rather deep caused by me trying to climb into the back of the car. There was a good reason why I felt the need to self incarcerate only I can’t remember it now. But because this is the umpteenth bump and cut, I now have this urge to shave my head and see what my scalp looks like. I think they’ll be scar tissue like some scabby nazca lines that may act as a modern Rosetta stone for aliens. But I’d look ridiculous – my head is too square and combined with my non-existent eyebrows the look would scream creepio – given we live opposite two large schools I’m not sure I’ll be allowed to walk past with Dog in tow.
But mostly my urges, the ones I really
want need to suppress relate to my ingrained clumsiness. This means I cannot do DIY. I can do a year’s posts on my incompetence but the reason I have so many tales is because I keep trying.
Only this past weekend I tried to fix the runner on a shower door that had come loose. I studied it carefully. I analysed the situation with the same fearsome logic that got me two A grade A levels in maths (see what I did there?) and knew – I just knew – what to do. Undo the locking nut, unclip the runner, put it back on the rail, re-tighten said locking nut and, as they say in Marseilles, Bob Est Ton Oncle.
Minutes later the locking nut described a perfect parabola as it, complying with all appropriate Newtonian laws for the movement of mass, left the end of my screwdriver in a north-easterly direction at approximately 7 meters a second. It bounced once and, with an accuracy that belied repetition, disappeared between the skirting board and the wooden flooring touching neither.
Happily despite ruining the shower I did come up with two mathematical equations for what happened :
Hope divided by experience is never a positive integer
the total of my wife’s frustration is equal to the number of my attempts at DIY to the power ‘n’ where ‘n’ is a humongous number
So that’s all good then.
I’m off to find a charging cable…