Wheels come off wingéd chariot

Some venerable sayings avoid being clichés because of their bitterness. One such is French: Si jeunesse savait, si vieillesse pouvait (If youth knew (how to), if old age were able (to)). The likely reference is copulative but not exclusively so. The sentiment plays on all regrets about age. In an up-to-date variant a young man wants an open sports car but can’t afford it, now older, he can afford it but can’t bear the risk of being rained on.

My personal variant is banal but the bitter echo rings loud, hideously out of tune. When we first bought a house we were poor and I was forced to do much (incompetent) DIY. This included drilling into brick walls for which carbon-tipped masonry bits were necessary. Because I was not only poor but lazy I continued using these bits after they’d become blunt. Which meant holes took longer to drill and the bits got even blunter.

Once, I just kept on drilling. The bit became red hot and the carbon tip, which fits like toast into a single-slice toast rack at the end of the bit, dropped out. A shocking condemnation of one who now pontificates about understanding and claiming to sympathise with aspects of technology.

Now glance at my drill-related accessories. All the masonry bits I’ll ever need with lots more besides. Even those circular saw devices for cutting large holes, which I’ve often yearned for. But there’s one thing wrong. Look again. They’re all virginal. A complete collection for work I no longer do. The French had me typed all those years ago.

Novel progress 6/2/10. Ch. 14: 1267 words. Chs. 1 - 13: 58,239 words. Comments: Into the mouth of the unknown for Clare.

How my character was formed

Sawtooth – a compound adjective which doesn’t tell the whole story. For a saw to work the alternate teeth must be splayed left and right. But nobody had told me when - aged seven? eight? - I received a Kiddie’s Carpenter Set. Grinding away with an inadequately jagged piece of metal, hands blistered, I fashioned two bits of wood, nailed them together, called it a fighter plane and gave it to my grandmother to show my grandfather who in his surly way constantly urged me towards woodmanship.

The pieces became detached in my grandmother’s handbag and were unidentifiable when handed over, leaving my grandfather characteristically irritated. At least he didn’t beat me. His cane, which had a silver ferrule at one end, lay along the picture rail of his living room, a minatory presence.

TOP, ER, TEN Julia asked about Mrs BB’s top ten books from the 200-plus titles she read in 2009. Here they are:

Case Histories, by Kate Atkinson
Disobedience, by Naomi Alderman
The Other Hand, by Chris Cleve
A Month in the Country, by J. L. Carr
The Siege of Krishnapur, by J. G. Farrell
The Cellist of Sarajevo, by Steven Galloway
Alfred and Emily, by Doris Lessing
The Redundancy of Courage, by Timothy Mo
The Third Policeman, by Flann O’Brian
Home, by Marilynne Robinson
Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson.
The Cutting Room, by Louise Welsh

Sharp-eyed readers will notice this list includes twelve books, those that Mrs BB scored 7, 8 and 9 out of 10. I am told no book has ever scored the full 10. To my astonishment I find I have read one of these books, albeit thirty years ago.

Novel progress 10/1/10. Ch. 11: 1756 words. Chs. 1 - 10: 44,765 words. Comments: Hatch jogs.