Get a little closer, why don't you?This does not exactly inspire confidence, but we're all used to it. Often, his nose touches the paper.
I exaggerate; his cheek does.
How, you ask, can that be? Well, he squints one eye closed and then brings the paper right up to his other eye, eyelashes tickling the fiber of the paper, or his eye right down to the surface he is examining, the work he is doing, the body on which he is operating.
No, no. I exaggerate. I don't know what on earth he does in the operating room. Maybe just feels his way through things. Actually, when there's a lot of blood involved, which is true in -- excuse me, but it's true -- obstetrics, at least, if less gynecology, is about the case.
I am, nonetheless, a little worried. He does not have the equipment of a professional wood shop to mark and cut the wood. He is using a mechanical pencil, a carpenter's "fat" pencil, a tape measure and an old protractor from the navy. His father's days in the academy? Something he picked up in a broccante? It usually sits collecting dust alongside his other precious naval bibelots on a shelf in the living room.
We drove back up from the Périgord Thursday in two separate cars, Sam driving the Bimmer alongside me and Audouin driving the Voyager, laden with 20 cases of Bergerac to set aside to age nicely, alongside his daughter. We followed. He looked miserable. About like he could throw himself from the window on which he leaned his head, propped on his elbow. I was a little miffed, shall we say, putting it nicely, with him the evening before our departure. I am sure there were very good reasons, but, as usual, I have forgotten them and remember only that they merited a good sulk. Snap goes the delicate strand connecting us.
Friday, he went to get the wood for the balcony. His project.
His Project.
He has assured me that he knows how to do this, but I think I have seen doubt cross his brow; I know it has crossed mine. I am swearing to let him get on with it and swear at himself, not at me, when and if he discovers that maybe it really does matter what you use to measure before you cut, and what you use to cut. From the sample cuts, I am not reassured. All I don't want is to have to live with a boy scout project rather than an accomplished finished project. Let me not rush to judge.
He has another week to work on it, although at this rate, it will be nearing Christmas before we'll know.
Meanwhile, I got another coat on the balcony. It's getting there. I could almost leave it the way it is. Almost.
By the way, the 3G+ key didn't pick up WiFi deep under in Dordogne. I missed you, but I got used to it. The days seem much longer without Internet.
Go figure.
....
I exaggerate; his cheek does.
How, you ask, can that be? Well, he squints one eye closed and then brings the paper right up to his other eye, eyelashes tickling the fiber of the paper, or his eye right down to the surface he is examining, the work he is doing, the body on which he is operating.
No, no. I exaggerate. I don't know what on earth he does in the operating room. Maybe just feels his way through things. Actually, when there's a lot of blood involved, which is true in -- excuse me, but it's true -- obstetrics, at least, if less gynecology, is about the case.
I am, nonetheless, a little worried. He does not have the equipment of a professional wood shop to mark and cut the wood. He is using a mechanical pencil, a carpenter's "fat" pencil, a tape measure and an old protractor from the navy. His father's days in the academy? Something he picked up in a broccante? It usually sits collecting dust alongside his other precious naval bibelots on a shelf in the living room.
We drove back up from the Périgord Thursday in two separate cars, Sam driving the Bimmer alongside me and Audouin driving the Voyager, laden with 20 cases of Bergerac to set aside to age nicely, alongside his daughter. We followed. He looked miserable. About like he could throw himself from the window on which he leaned his head, propped on his elbow. I was a little miffed, shall we say, putting it nicely, with him the evening before our departure. I am sure there were very good reasons, but, as usual, I have forgotten them and remember only that they merited a good sulk. Snap goes the delicate strand connecting us.
Friday, he went to get the wood for the balcony. His project.
His Project.
He has assured me that he knows how to do this, but I think I have seen doubt cross his brow; I know it has crossed mine. I am swearing to let him get on with it and swear at himself, not at me, when and if he discovers that maybe it really does matter what you use to measure before you cut, and what you use to cut. From the sample cuts, I am not reassured. All I don't want is to have to live with a boy scout project rather than an accomplished finished project. Let me not rush to judge.
He has another week to work on it, although at this rate, it will be nearing Christmas before we'll know.
Meanwhile, I got another coat on the balcony. It's getting there. I could almost leave it the way it is. Almost.
By the way, the 3G+ key didn't pick up WiFi deep under in Dordogne. I missed you, but I got used to it. The days seem much longer without Internet.
Go figure.
....
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1 commentaire:
20 cases of Bergerac!
Perhaps it will be perfectly aged by the time I can visit!
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