pumpkinstrokemarrow

The shed, perhaps 20 years old now, has a rotting back end built into the gentle slope which runs up from our kitchen window. This despite various bits of concrete deployed inside and outside and with the result that the shed has distorted enough that top corner of the door which is supposed to swing actually catches on the door frame. For some time now it requires some force to open and shut the thing and even more to latch it. Nobody said anything and I did not do anything. But for some reason, yesterday, I decided to do something about it. And rather than trying to call in a shed consultant from checkatrade (http://www.checkatrade.com/), I decided to attend to the matter myself.

Moved bench and tool box onto the patio. Connect two speed electric drill to suitable extension lead. Deploy hard core G-cramp from north London. And a couple of hours later one side of the head of the door frame has been raised half an inch, a nice new, mature oak door stop (of unusual section because the door no longer fits the door frame very well) has been nailed to the swing side jamb and the latch has been adjusted by moving it up a couple of inches. Not too bad a job to the casual eye, but one of those jobs which leave one a bit unsatisfied as one knows about the various bodges and batches under the covers and at least one of which might catch the eye of a proper carpenter. Luckily, no proper carpenters resident and I usually forget about the bodges and badges after a few days, so I will soon be able to bask in the glory of a job well done.

Back indoors, I finished off the second pass of 'A Legacy'; much easier to follow the story the second time around. The foreign names must have finally penetrated what is left of the frontal cortex. On the other hand, I find a lot of the interactions between people, particularly those between the various women involved, very odd. I think that some of this is down to poor editing but some of it is down to the author being on a different plane to yours truly. I just look at the words and wonder whether people really would behave like that. Not a problem I have, for example, with Tolstoy's main line productions. I don't spend time when reading them worrying about whether they are plausible; they work without needing to work at them.

Although that said, my mother used to say that something that was easy was unlikely to be worthy. And it is certainly true that I probably wrote plenty of dreadful stuff about the likes of Tolstoy in those far off days when I was expected to write book reviews for the consumption of the English teacher. Maybe a page of exercise book apiece and I don't recall ever being asked to share any of it with fellow children.

I do wonder now how much of such highbrow stuff sank in: would I have done better to stick to Allan Quatermain and Captain Hornblower until I knew a bit more about the birds and the bees? I do know that the edition of Hornblower which I had as a child now fetches a good bit in book fairs, along with all those fancily priced Peter Rabbits, Puddle Ducks and what have you.