So singly and plurallistically, my guests left, shortly after CHRISTMAS, heading for their own futures. Although, according to one discussion recently had, that future consists of not existing until the next time we meet. It has taken me three years to begin to understand the the ontology of social constructionism, and a part of me wonders why I bothered. Social construction is, like the measurement of length or empirical evidence in support of something, a very useful tool, - a way of explaining some phenomena, not the "it" of the phenomena, aggregated parts of something, not the essential elements - molecules when I expected quarks, and I"m disappointed. I explain this to JJ, and that I'm thinking of blogging about it. He thinks I should write something funny instead.
We have wanted a shed for ages and a post-Christmas trip to the local DIY centre reveals a bargain- the store's sole remaining example of "The Forester" that normally retails at 127.00 is about to be thrown into the store's dumpster. This is because the Forester in question was damaged in transit. Actually, to the untrained eye, it looks as if it has been involved in an earthquake. Major elements of it are broken; the plywood sheet that makes up the roof, the window pane, the roofing felt, some of the planks that clad it and the door. And, although it is flat-packed, to get it home in the only available neighbour's vehicle, I will have to saw in half the four panels that make up the sides, so that by the time it reaches Large Mansions, no part will be left undamaged. I am convinced, and offer 50 pounds for the thing, and without the cash passing through the till, the Forester is mine. Its a tad smallish, but I can still envisage, the Forester complete,which of course includes a small stove, a ratten chair and a hidden supply of whiskey.
Its still subzero in Hull, but the sun is shining, so I spring into action, erecting my shed. It is a bit harder than I thought it would be to get all the broken bits of wood to fit back together, and I realise this is a small scale demonstration of why houses are not rebuilt after natural disasters but quite quickly, I discover that if I dont over- obsess about details of architecture such as square-ness, uniform height, rectangular shape, straightness and so on, then I can create a four-sided object with a bi-planar roof that may, one day, house a small wood burner. Towards three pm, its getting dark and cold again, so I rush a little, furiously ducttaping together pre-torn pieces of roofing felt in an effort to get the Forester slightly more water resistant. In the growing gloom, I hammer home a nail in an effort to secure a final non-continuous strip of roofing felt. The strike of the hammer head on nail sounds less ferrous, metallic and zingy than normal. In fact, it sounds quite squashy, muffled, squamous. Realisation dawns and I glance at my little finger, called the pinkie in some quarters. I have squashed pinkie quite effectively and split the end of the finger in half.
Previous experience tells me that I've probably broken the bone at the the end of the finger, although previous experience also informs me that these bones are intriguingly hard to break. But (and this is in case anyone needs any advice on the subject and is wondering whether the accident they have just had has resulted in a break, a bruise, or soft tissue damage)breaks to bone are deceptive little critters, and usually the least painful(unless its a big break) than the other injuries, measured over time. Deep soft tissue damage is the worst, it ebbs constantly from the inside out, occasionally spiking and leaving you feeling very nauseous, and it makes you distrust whatever limb or joint(usually) you've hurt. Bruising is terrible, but its surface, like someone has tightened your whole skin, and is well masked by alcohol. Breaks are sneaky, they dont hurt much after the initial pain, but then itch like hell. THey tend only to hurt if you do something bad, like move the wrong way, and as long as you avoid that movement, they're ok.
All of which, I suppose, nicely leads in to the recent knee operation, which has been a kind of self-inflicted, but welcome sort of tissue damage accompanied by bruising. THose familiar with this blog will know that the op has been necessitated by the near murderous driving of someone three years ago, and that obtaining this fix - an arthroscopy - has been somewhat of a struggle. Currently, I am assured that the operation was a great success, with repairs to the medial and anterior cartilage/ligament thingy and a small army of bone fragment removed. It will however take about six weeks before full mobility is restored, which is probably a good thing as I have an essay on social constructionism to write and will need all of that time to describe something I think of as nothing more than a measurement.
Fortuntely, I have my cat to help me. Toshack is under strict veternirarian instructions to loose wait and a miniscule reduction in his diet has meant that he has totally reverted (again) to being a kitten. Consequentl, he follows me round, moping and looking hopeful, obviously petitioning for a treat. When looking like a little kitten that has lost it's mitten and been orphaned on the same day, in the rain, failed to garner him more food, he decided to get really clingy. So one day, working quietly in my office, 20 lbs of jumbo sized kitten crawled onto my lap and started purring. In truth, he's too big to actually fit, and is a challenge to circulation of the upper thigh, but its is now where he spends his time when I'm writing in my office. I had the camera handy, so decided to take a few shots, which are, I recognize, either cute or disturbing from a few perspectives:
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