I have what I like to think of as a special skill.
It’s what sets me apart from other people. What lifts me above the realm of mere mortal. Honestly, if the X-Men were real, I’d be waiting for a visit from a shiny-headed Professor in his wheelchair. Or hoverchair. Depending on where we wanted to slot in along the time line.
Basically, I can do things which an outsider would think to be dangerous or carry an associated risk of injury with little or no consequence. But doing a ridiculously simple task leads to untold misery, injury, or blood loss.
It’s a skill I share with the likes of Jennifer Lawrence. Except while she’s busy just falling over at award ceremonies – so she could, if she wanted, blame it on long dresses or ridiculously high shoes – I am just toppling over for no discernible reason outside Westminster Abbey in the dark. Or the West Yorkshire Playhouse. Or a street in Huddersfield. Or any number of steps or stairwells at school and/or university.
Today we destroyed an armchair using all manner of dangerous tools. Saws, hammers, stanley knives. All were employed in the course of removing one tatty armchair from existence – reducing in to pieces small enough to be transported to the tip in the rear of a Renault Modus. No injuries befell me, despite swinging a lump hammer round like the was no tomorrow, using the stanley knife like I was carry out a particularly heinous slashing attack and the saw like I was cutting through large pieces of wood.
No blood was lost. No splinters were gained. Nothing happened.
And then we took the pieces of it to the tip.
Where we threw it away.
And a lot of the surface skin of my thumb.
It’s a gift.
Albeit a messy, painful one.