I know, I know. You were about to give my place on the register to someone else. I do realise that that there’s a waiting list of other things wanting your attention. What can I say? Don’t give up on me – one more chance?
Truth is, we’ve marked the New Year by getting well and truly laminated. So the time I should have spent blogging has been frittered away juggling saws: in particular, Bro-in-Law’s mitre saw, Pa’s jig-saw and LittleBruv’s useful oscillating saw – ideal for cutting the bottom off architraves, should that be your heart’s desire.
I do like a nice power tool. My favourite is the mitre saw: it being large, seriously noisy and sending out pretty sparks as you cut. Everything about it says ‘impressive’, even though, in reality, it’s as easy to use as a sewing machine (which, being a girl’s toy, has a lot less kudos. Discuss, with particular reference to the relative importance given by society to traditionally male and female activities. If you must, bring in the recent Star Wars action figure set and Monopoly game which contain models of only the male figures, thereby missing out the film’s lead character. #WheresRey? Write on one side of the paper only.)
I was talking power tools this week, as an example of my continuing dexterity, at a Parkinson’s Tracking Review. It’ll be four years in May since my diagnosis but my physical symptoms are still pretty much confined to a tremor in the right hand. Wading through questionnaires before the study, I am reminded that there are a whole host of other problems with which some Parkies have to contend. But, for me, at the moment, it’s still all about the tremor. I’m extremely lucky.
And, although my tremor has got worse, it is still a ‘resting tremor’: bothersome only when my hand is bored. So, I’m able to thread a needle, put in a contact lens and, yes, slice up laminate with majestic power tools.
But on a Friday, when I attempt to hold still the words at the singing group, my hand bumbles about all over the place. It’s as bouncy as a Reception child at an assembly on the minor prophets, and I end up having to sit on it to maintain order. Don’t let me near any auction rooms: who knows what I might come away with!
In school last week, Mrs Heinz was asked her age by one of her small-group children. She answered truthfully, sixty-four. The group sat, awe-struck, apparently – until one child splattered: “but my gran is forty- seven! Shouldn’t you have a stick?”
Which reminded me of when Mrs Karma was working with a group of children when one reached out and stroked the back of her hand.
“Please don’t do that,” said Mrs Karma.
“But I like the frilly bits,” the child replied.
Wishing you and your frilly bits a belated Happy New Year.