The lid of the ‘everything bin’ is frosted shut and it nearly rocks over when I give it a good heave. I sling the bag in and drop it shut, pushing the bin back square to the paving I laid for it. Again, I’m momentarily startled by another dad-ism – my father had a thing about bins, as well as thermometers. He was obsessed with getting the right things in the right bins at the right time, and all the bins in the right place, and I think, God, please don’t let this be me.
And yet, I’m a lover of detail. I like living a considered life. Noticing things seems to slow down the passage of time to a manageable speed. The Black Bullet is a good focus for this. It reminds me of the string in a child’s crystal growing kit, a starter, but for growing your thoughts on. Unfortunately for me the Black Bullet is holed up with a flat in the shed and my fickle thoughts are wandering all over the place.
As I turn to crunch down the snowy path, spade in hand, I see the fig I planted against the wall in the spring. The glossy black buds with little snow caps on. Shit, perhaps I should’ve put a sack over it, it was minus eleven last night! I remonstrate with myself, briefly. Wherever I look there seems to be evidence of things I haven’t thought of, and done, rather than things I have.
Momentarily deflated I heft the spade up, shifting my grip down the shaft so it hangs without banging against my leg. I’m supposed to be digging my car out, not a hole for self esteem. Come on, move on.
Poz is waiting for me round the front, in a ridiculous get-up of afterthoughts. His mum has pulled a huge chunky-knit cardigan over his jacket, think ‘boho-eskimo’ and you won’t be far off. There’s no doubt he’ll be warm enough on his way to nursery, he won't be able to touch his hands together but who cares about the way he looks, right.
This thing about detail, though, it can become such filigree that the slightest disturbance pulls it apart and you've got to wonder how useful that is in the long run. It's like the character in that Dostoyevsky novel who cogitates endlessley on what it's like to be a 'man of action'. I need to sort out that puncture and get back on the bike soon.
