Trauma, When a Toe
Posted by Dirck on 24 July, 2014
I speak, of course, of stubbing. Those whose memories extend to the earliest days of this item will remember that this is a practice that I’m not entirely a fan of. Like all humans, I’m an inconsistent creature, and have committed stubbing upon some of my own pens, and even bragged about the results, and which I continue to enjoy.
Well, on Monday I returned some pens to a client upon which I had also practiced grindery. These were not the first I had done this to, but in previous examples the stakes were relatively low. This most recent batch were different in that it was a pair of Montblanc 149s and a Pelikan 800; not inexpensive pens, and pens which I can’t afford to replace any part of, let alone the points. Those who are familiar with Richard III may have some doubts, but when I say I had to be talked into doing the work, I really mean it. However, I’m pleased with the results.
As ever, I sound off prematurely, as I have yet to hear from the client if this pleasure lies at both ends of the transaction. I may be setting myself up for a retraction (at least), but I’m pretty seriously critical of myself. That interior critic being grudgingly content with the performance, I’ve finally decided to admit to the world in general (and not just you few who look in here) that I’ll do this sort of thing. For money. The Services page of my site is even now whispering it into the ear of Google.
On a brief side note which is probably connected, I spent a bit of this morning questioning my sanity. A very skinny youth on a skateboard drifted past the window here at The Regular Job. Almost instantly, this came into my head.
Attenuated skateboard dude,
I hope you will not think me rude,
If I observe that it’s quite crude,
for you to do that in the nude.
…which he was not, I hasten to point out. Now, it has been… , wow, thirty years since I set aside my psychology studies, but I do recall spontaneous rhyming as showing up somewhere in the DSM, and it wasn’t in the “nothing to worry about” section.
That little tremor of concern ties in with another recent aberration. A friend’s visit last week had me actually looking into the face of Pinterest, and while I can’t say I quite grasp the utility of it (lots of pictures, not much information), I have decided to give it a little time. Anyone looking at the site will find that all my pictures are now ready and willing to be pinned, for whatever joy that may bring the pinners. I’ve scored some pretty pictures, of pens and of other things, like the Art Deco infestation of Napier, New Zealand. In theory, my life is somehow richer.
I suppose it’s something to do with the connection between writers and nuttiness. Perhaps I should go down the Hemingway path and drink myself sane. That worked out well for him, right?