dagga-dagga-dagga
Yes, that is a very bad impersonation of a Spitfire aircraft attacking, all guns blazing. It is the sort of mimic a daft nine-year-old might deliver to annoy a teacher who may, or may not, have been a Spitfire pilot at some time in the past. This possibility really isn’t the actual point of the bad impersonation; an incendiary response from the teacher – let’s call him ‘Eric’, for that was indeed his name – is the modest ambition of the daft nine-year-old.
So, here’s the thing, I was that daft, very annoying, nine-year old. Rooted somewhere in the depths of this dark tale of wasted schooldays lies the genesis of a story I tell myself.
I tell myself that I am useless with my hands.
As I say whenever the question of home improvements arises: these are office hands, not DIY hands, gesturing with smooth palms and unblemished fingerprints as if to prove my point.
Was it really then, back in those long-distant schooldays, when the myth became a reality around which I shaped adulthood? Was the distraction technique for my Craft teacher an early blow in my fight (who was I fighting anyway) against the rigours of manual endeavour?
I was SO annoying to Eric, the craft teacher, that there was no chance of me getting to use anything more than a blunt chisel, a tenon saw and a tiny bradawl. Without the tools, I was reduced to making a tray to offer my mother at the end of term. You will by now have surmised, correctly, that a tray is, in essence, a flat bit of wood (pre-cut by the craft teacher) and some beading glued on to act as the handles. That masterpiece mostly kept me out of mischief for a 10-week term. We won’t dwell on basketry class (in 1976) which was spent (usefully, I feel) learning all the words to Bohemian Rhapsody. Pottery class … the same sort of direction but without the end product of a memorised hit of the day – I am reasonably confident that the combination ashtray/pipe-stand I offered up to my father met its demise with the first sharp crack of briar against frail glazed clay.
Thus, our not-so intrepid hero enters adulthood with a firmly fixed notion that all crafts, the making of things with deft hands and a well-held tool, are beyond his competence.
Perhaps this is how all our truths are born.
We think them … they become so.
There is little to counter the notion.
Sure, there is the racing bike I stripped down, resprayed, and reassembled. It made the trip from the edge of Dartmoor – ironically, the first pedal stroke of which was from right outside the craft shop within which those bad Spitfire impersonations first echoed – all the way to Cognac and back again.
A succession of Airfix models, gently assembled, painted with an eye for detail; every ounce of value squeezed from a process funded by extremely limited pocket money.
Ah, yes, the exquisite tortellini I made on a week-long cookery class in these years during which I have started to imagine I might possess some creativity after all.
A few examples, and there’ll be more if I stretch my mind to it.
Here’s the weird thing though; when I pick up a pen or a pencil (in this hand which I believe to be clumsy and incapable), words flow. Of course, the words flow from my thoughts, my mind, my sub-conscious … but something guides the nib; something manipulates the tool so the words unfold. I wrote the outline for this piece by hand, confident in my ability to translate intention into well-crafted end product.
There was no hesitation.
No sense of ‘I can’t do this’.
Deft hands, well-turned phrase.
Maybe there’s more that can be done with my hands than I think possible. Perhaps it is not the ‘manual block’ I imagine it is; it is looking increasingly like a mental block.
It’s not the hands that matter, as such, it’s your belief in what they can do that counts.
BaRRIE THOMSON