Imagine it. Almost dead. Gone. No fucking Bock. The end.
Oh, it was nothing really. You see, I have this habit of doing things. I just can’t help it. I have this ability where I’m actually able to do things, you know? I have this man-type thing which involves being actually able to hang up that shelf, or install that actual boiler, and it will work. I think I got it from my father, a man of very few words, but much activity.
Yeah. Some of my friends hate me for this and have attempted to kill me in consequence.
It’s not as if I chose this. It isn’t as though I selected this destiny. I never besought some DIY deity : make me good at shelves!!!
It just kinda seeped into me, from my Uber-skillful father, whose favourite term of appeasement to me, his small son, was One min now an I’ll show ya but he never did, thus proving that it’s all genetic.
It didn’t prevent me knowing how to wire a two-way switch, or how to fit a Belfast sink.
It didn’t, likewise, help me when my fucking ladder slipped from beneath me this afternoon, shattering my very nice cafetiere and almost dislocating my wrist trying to prevent myself from being killed.
Shit. No more hero stories for a while.