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hirez... Yeah, right.
Bit of a weekend all round, I think. Did a set of things that I'm potentially over-pleased with, but I'm sure we'll all live. I dunno that welding in a sleeveless t-shirt was the brightest of ideas, since I have a patch of sunburn on one upper arm that I'm at a loss to otherwise explain. Still, that which does not kill us is as grist to the mill of LJ.
Anyway, in looking at some of the photos, it became obvious that (a) I'm diminishing in a quietly pleasing manner, and (b) notwithstanding (a) no-one's ever going to use the word 'fey' and my name in the same sentence again. At least not without sarcasm or negation. (The canonical prehistoric JHR photo is within the album on libeljournal and y'all can find it on your own, should the unlikely mood take you)
Instead, one sees a farmer. Specifically, my dad. (Younger, more hair, propensity for combats. You know the drill.)
I'm basically ok with that. Finally. I mean there's not much point pretending I had some kind of 'street' or 'urban' upbringing where I became 'down' with the nature and functionality of cities aged seven (any more). I grew up on a farm (ok, 3k5 acres of mixed arable, grass and woodland + shooting estate on the top of the Cotswolds) and roamed across it without let or hindrance. I played with carbide, jumped up and down on mouldering stacks of wavy asbestos, paddled in sheep dip... And fifty other life-threatening things that have currently fallen out of my brain because they were just things we did and anything that didn't damage yourself or other people was ok.
Idyllic? Only if I remember the good bits. The less good bits involve being painfully shy and living some number of miles from anyone else. Going to big school was... Quite a shock to the system.
The real bugger of being shy (for me at any rate) was/is fear of making a cock-up.
At this point it probably helps to mention that my father is one of those people who's good at pretty much everything. Not in an annoying way, but in the way that was required in post-war agriculture. Useful skills like sheep maintenance, drystone walling, plumbing, carpentry, welding, electricity, engine fettling, which wine to pick for dinner, the correct way to reply to a wedding invite... That sort of thing.
The sort of things that any useful sort of a chap would want to know anyway so as not to be seen as, well, a bit useless. A bit of a townie.
The sort of things that one has to try for oneself and make a bugger of once or twice before you actually learn anything. A bit of a problem if one's groundlessly and annoyingly over-concerned with not making a fool of oneself.
[ Sigh ]
One grows up. One learns, finally, that in order to make the R-pins, one's going to have to keep trying rather than throwing a strop and stomping off.
Bit of a weekend all round, I think. Did a set of things that I'm potentially over-pleased with, but I'm sure we'll all live. I dunno that welding in a sleeveless t-shirt was the brightest of ideas, since I have a patch of sunburn on one upper arm that I'm at a loss to otherwise explain. Still, that which does not kill us is as grist to the mill of LJ.
Anyway, in looking at some of the photos, it became obvious that (a) I'm diminishing in a quietly pleasing manner, and (b) notwithstanding (a) no-one's ever going to use the word 'fey' and my name in the same sentence again. At least not without sarcasm or negation. (The canonical prehistoric JHR photo is within the album on libeljournal and y'all can find it on your own, should the unlikely mood take you)
Instead, one sees a farmer. Specifically, my dad. (Younger, more hair, propensity for combats. You know the drill.)
I'm basically ok with that. Finally. I mean there's not much point pretending I had some kind of 'street' or 'urban' upbringing where I became 'down' with the nature and functionality of cities aged seven (any more). I grew up on a farm (ok, 3k5 acres of mixed arable, grass and woodland + shooting estate on the top of the Cotswolds) and roamed across it without let or hindrance. I played with carbide, jumped up and down on mouldering stacks of wavy asbestos, paddled in sheep dip... And fifty other life-threatening things that have currently fallen out of my brain because they were just things we did and anything that didn't damage yourself or other people was ok.
Idyllic? Only if I remember the good bits. The less good bits involve being painfully shy and living some number of miles from anyone else. Going to big school was... Quite a shock to the system.
The real bugger of being shy (for me at any rate) was/is fear of making a cock-up.
At this point it probably helps to mention that my father is one of those people who's good at pretty much everything. Not in an annoying way, but in the way that was required in post-war agriculture. Useful skills like sheep maintenance, drystone walling, plumbing, carpentry, welding, electricity, engine fettling, which wine to pick for dinner, the correct way to reply to a wedding invite... That sort of thing.
The sort of things that any useful sort of a chap would want to know anyway so as not to be seen as, well, a bit useless. A bit of a townie.
The sort of things that one has to try for oneself and make a bugger of once or twice before you actually learn anything. A bit of a problem if one's groundlessly and annoyingly over-concerned with not making a fool of oneself.
[ Sigh ]
One grows up. One learns, finally, that in order to make the R-pins, one's going to have to keep trying rather than throwing a strop and stomping off.
