Day 152 - Mind & Body

 MIND & BODY

Prompt - Mind & Body : Write something that would motivate others to workout and exercise

I am much nearer the end of my life than the beginning.  An easy statement to make as the chances of me living beyond a hundred and twenty are pretty remote, and even making the century is still, for my generation, something most of us won't manage.  Having always had a fairly wimpish immune system I can see there will come a time when it's hard to fight off something or other.  That's if I haven't fallen under a bus beforehand.

None of which talk seems morbid to me.  I'm not overly bothered about death itself (although no doubt my preprogrammed genetic instincts will do all they can to resist that final moment), since that' s just oblivion, effectively the same state I was in before I was expelled from my mother's interior.  It's the dying bit that's worrying, since that can sometimes involve a lot of discomfort, pain, humiliation and other things I am not at all keen on.  There is nothing much I can do about sudden unexpected events, like global pandemics, but I can try to keep myself in the best condition to try and ensure that if I do have another decade or tow in me that I can have a good chance of remaining mobile and able to do the things I enjoy doing.

Genetics will play their part in that of course.  And diet.  I'm extremely fortunate in the former meaning I don't have to worry overmuch about the latter, in terms of weight gain.  My weight has remained pretty stable for the past fifteen years and more, and it probably helps that six years ago I near enough gave up alcohol following a diagnosis of gout.  The other big factor is exercise, and that's often the hardest to keep going with, but may have the greatest benefits of all.

The word conjures up sweaty breathlessness, doing sports that get the lungs and heart pumping hard.  But that level of exercise isn't necessary.  Indeed the number of professional sports people who late suffer from arthritis or other ailments linked to their chosen profession suggests it's often best not to try TOO hard.  What matters most is consistency, and a degree of moderation.  Whatever activity, or activities, work for you it's important to keep them up for as long as possible in life, and to get back (gently) into it following illness or injury.  While recognising that those that are more likely to lead to injuries might be the first to have to go...

The aim here isn't longevity itself, but ensuring quality of life for however long you've got.  It used to be thought that aerobic exercise was the key, and it is still important to get out of breath at least once a day if possible, even if it's only from climbing a flight of stairs as quick as you can.  But recent research suggests that maintaining muscle tone is a bigger factor in keeping your body functioning well into your later years.

To that end I try to do some kind of exercise every day if I feel up to it.  It's rarely too strenuous, I'm not aiming to win medals, just keep all my important bits moving and as flexible as possible.  For me that means stretching every day.  Trying to do at least a few mild strength exercises, like press ups and stomach crunches, walking and getting fresh air - I do most of the food shopping on foot, to give some point to my walks.  Some days I'll do a longer walk, at least five miles and more.  I will be getting a bike (ebike - I'm not daft and this is a city of wind and hills).  And I amy getting myself back to regular gym visits now they are open again.  Those visits are short, no more than half an hour, and mostly focus on doing a few weights.  Not particularly heavy weights, and if I don't 'improve' it's not going to bother me, but enough to make me ache a bit the next morning.  I'd much rather have those 'good' aches that the ones that come from the body reducing in it's ability to move as effectively as it used to.  

There's no right way to exercise, it's just what works best for you.  The motivation isn't in achieving goals, but in giving yourself a better chance of enjoying retirement, of 'ageing well'.  And that doesn't mean taking up these activities once you are in your sixties.  The more years of your life you include exercise as part of your routine the easier it will be to keep it going later, and the greater the long term benefits.  

Day 151 - The Grass is Greener

 THE GRASS IS GREENER

Prompt - The Grass is Greener : Write about switching the place with someone or going to where it seems the grass is greener.

Jim and John both wanted change

So they've gone and made a switch

John's at Jim's and Jim's at John's

Both need to scratch their itch

They've known each other fifty years

From school to death of wives

They stayed so close yet far apart

Lived very different lives

Jim's wee cottage is on the coast

Pettycur Beach close at hand

But he wants to be among people

Had enough of the sea, sky and sand

John's flat in Leith looks out on the docks

Across the Forth from Jim

Fed up of the crowds and the sirens

The silence sounds perfect to him

So they've swapped over lives for a month

Each certain the other has found

The right way to live in contentment

Both seeking for answers profound

Both of them soon learn their lesson

And, phoning, they quickly admitted

That this wasn't working the way that they'd hoped

Their own lives the ones they best fitted

Day 150 - Magazine

 MAGAZINE

Prompt - Magazine : randomly flip to a page in a magazine and write using the first few words you see as an opening line.

"I'm very influenced by my travels, particularly in Marrakech, Paris and London.  It's the intermingling of those palettes that helps create the sense of displacement in my work."

This was Geremmy, Shiv's latest boyfriend.  Her latest pretentious prick.  She knew exactly what I'd think of him and couldn't wait to throw the full horror in my face, and laugh at my reaction.  And I played along, because that's what we did.  My sister played to shock, I had to act out the older brother role.  I wondered if that would ever change?

So I let her have her laugh, I talked to her friends, I even let myself be patronised by yet another painter whose 'work' looked like something a five year old could have done, but with more honesty.  

"I'm heading for Berlin next, see if a little of that Brandenburg magic can rub off on me, I can feel a more angular phase coming over me and Germanic is exactly the right vibe for the moment."  I nodded, tried to make polite noises.  And, to my own surprise, found myself asking the overblown daub -monkey a genuine question about the canvases he was flaunting.

"Why is there always a knife blade in your painting?"  It was the one thing I'd noticed, the only part that intrigued.  There was good chance the answer would be a load of bollocks, but I thought I'd give him a chance.

"Aah, well spotted, my little recurring symbol, a link to my internal thought process.  Not a knife though.  A letter opener.  A device to unlock the unknown, both the eagerly awaited love missive and the unwanted tax demand.  An opening into aspects of life that suddenly appear before us on our doormat.  Opportunities and responsibilities, friends and strangers, the casual, the formal, a celebration or a death, news and old memories, openings into future and past.  The mailbox is a window into times to come, the blade the means to unfold those times."

I'd been right.  Total bollocks.

Time to say my goodbyes so I sought out sis, took her to one side.

"You hate him, don't you?"  She wanted me to, it would make her proud.  One nil to the youngster.  

"I can safely say he's the worst yet.  I only hope you know what you're doing.  Try not to let this one hurt you too much Shiv."  She faux-scowled back, then gave me a hug and told me to piss off.  Good, we were still friends.

A couple of months went by.  I'd only seen my sister once since the poncey exhibition, and she'd told me she might go off to Germany for a bit.

"Still Geremmy?"

"Yeah.  So?"  Challenging.  of course.

"Nothing.  Do what you want to do sis, would I ever dare try to stop you?"  She smiled that cutesy lopsided grin of hers, punched me on the arm and said she'd soon be back in Dublin.  I'd not heard anything since.

Reading the Sunday paper, just bored enough, waiting til I could head to the pub and few pints with the lads.  It was only five column inches in the international section, easy to miss, but the word Interpol in the headline drew me in.  I was always a sucker for a bit of cross border criminality.  Berlin police had found the body of a young woman, the fatal wounds from a narrow blade suggesting the killer had been performing a kind of ritual.  Interpol had become involved because of the similarities with unsolved murders in Paris, London, Greece and Morocco.  All of women with long dark hair, all killed in an identical manner, all still unidentified.

The connection wasn't instant.  Even when the thought came into my mind I tried to shove it away as sibling paranoia, overprotectiveness.  But I called Shiv.  No answer.  Texted, Whatsapped, emailed, looking for a response.  Left it overnight.  Slept little.  Still nothing in the morning.  

I went to the Garda, expecting to be told not to be so daft.  I wasn't.  Oh Shiv...

Day 149 - Colour Palette

 COLOUR PALETTE 

Prompt - Colour Palette : Search online for colour palettes and be inspired by one you resonate with

Link to colour palette chosen

So so close to the selection of hues that has already brought inspiration, and now causes eager anticipation.

Our living room furniture is raspberry.  A quality suede in a pleasant shade, tough, heard wearing, surprisingly cat resistant.  All good qualities.  But.  The weight suggests over engineering, the size leads to a lack of flexibility in the seating area, and... it really isn't all that comfy.  And that's the killer fact.

There are two big sofas, easy three seaters, four without too much squeeze.  They're the heavy ones.  There's also a matching chair, low slung, metal arms, which, with the right cushion in place, makes for a good place in which to read (an essential spot in any home, surely?).  But the sofas have hard squabs, albeit of a good depth, and overly upright backs, leading to a lack of support.  My lower back aches from too long spent TV watching.  (This is why I prefer channels with ad breaks - they provide valuable stretching time!)

So they have to go.  In the other half of the room sits a dining table, all glass and wood, and six chairs that have the same raspberry fabric.  We would never find a match for that, so the best solution is to break out into a totally different palette, the better to distinguish between the purposes of the two areas.   So we set off in search of the blues.

We now await August for the results, with the various new pieces all due to be delivered by and during that month.  One sofa gets a direct replacement, a three seater, but this time in a velour and a colour not far off the teal in my chosen palette.  Not, most definitely not, a heavyweight monster, but a lighter structure, on light coloured wooden legs, with a soft and welcoming set of cushions (and, crucially, a one piece squab, so that the poor sod sat in the middle doesn't fall into the gap!).  There is already a small two seater sofa in the entrance hall, where us oldies can sit to put on and take off footwear.  It too is in velour, a golden yellow, and the car can be found sleeping there on many evenings.  No claw induced damage has resulted, so we have hopes for this fabric!

The low slung chair, the reading place, is to be replaced by something more upright, but lighter to move around, lighter to look at, with the same wooden legs as the sofa.  It too will be in a velour, but this time much like the yellow on the palette, albeit a touch more mustardy.  The bright counterpoint to the blues of it's companions.

There's a break in the pattern when we come to the other sofa replacement, for it is far from being a like for like.  One becomes two, with a pair of armchairs filling the space, lined up to be the principal TV viewing points.  They rotate on their spindly aluminium base, recline and support rthe legs at the touch of a few buttons, and give all the support an ageing body could want.  They are the pale blue element of the colour chart, although the reality will be a slightly deeper shade.  In leather.  A risk, with those claws about the place, but we'll take the chance for the prospect of such comfort.

There's just the navy blue left, and we already have that one here, ready to fit into it's allotted space once all the rest have come home and changed the look.  It's a small storage footstool, again in velour, with a metallic band on it which will match with the armchair bases.  And that's the palette.  That's the colour scheme I wait upon, with some excitement.  Not just for the new look, although the greater sense of space will be welcome, but for the sake of my poor old back!

Day 148 - Beat

 BEAT

Prompt - Beat : Listen to music with a strong rhythm or listen to drum loops.  Write something that goes along with the beet you feel and hear

Deep in a Congolese jungle a grumpy but occasionally charming (when drunk) and frequently wisecracking (when sober) man in sweat stained fatigues and a crumpled sailor's hat (played, of course, by Humphrey Bogart) is journeying down river, back to the safety of the colonial administration, pursued by the local tribesmen he has angered by unintentionally insulting their god.  On board with him are two crew members, three passengers.  The engineer is long past his prime, living off reminiscences of the glory days when he was in charge of the engines of one of the great liners.  Or was it a battleship?  Or both?  While the deckhand is at the opposite end of his seafaring career, young, gawky, naive, prone to panic, exaggeration and all kinds of youthful behaviour that appears to irritate his boss, who hides his affection for the lad behind snapping commands and regular abuse.

Passenger one is a middle aged man with long curly hair tucked under a bush hat, a sneer permanently on his pock marked face.  He is a diamond smuggler, keen to obscure his identity from all, he tells everyone he's a wildlife enthusiast, keen on conversation.  Bogart, smart as ever, has never believed him.

The final passengers come as a pair.  An ageing Anglican missionary and his daughter.  The man is a little befuddled by events, unable to understand why the locals seem to have turned against him.  The daughter, outwardly modest and inwardly feisty, suspects the 'wildlife enthusiast' has a lot to do with it.  The mutual antipathy towards the 'baddie' draws hard bitten forty something sailor and young woman, innocent but also surprisingly knowing, into an unlikely alliance which hints at romance, becomes mutual antagonism, and ends with warmly loving relationship.  Hollywood's perfect couple.

The river's route is fraught with dangers for our disparate but ultimately intrepid band of travellers, with attacks from angry locals, engine trouble from the decrepit old machinery, a few crocodiles ready to snap up the careless, some highly photogenic, rapids, and volatility and arguments amongst the group, thrown together in stress and fear.  The baddie will be bad, but ends up giving his life to save the old man, convinced of his badness by the daughter's goodness.  Of course first to die, from a well thrown spear, is the young deckhand, and is that a small tear in the corner of the cpatain's eye?  Of course not, he's much too much of a man for that to happen.  

And so on, to the swelling strings behind the happy ending, as cliche piles on cliche and the hero delivers his classically understated assessment of what they've been through during their days and nights on the dangerous waters.

Instant classic (in atmospheric monochrome).  Working title, The Jungle Drums.

Day 147 - Break the Silence

 BREAK THE SILENCE

Prompt - Break the Silence : record yourself speaking, then write down what you spoke and revise it into a short story or poem

Me : What's the plan?

Her :  I'm not sure

Me :  I need a hand

her : Well, it's whether you want to go to Rusty Pallet today, or go tomorrow - spread out the birthday.

Me : Spread out the joy?  (laughs lightly)

Her : Up to you.  Your birthday.  You have to choose everything today.  

Me : (laughs out loud)

Me : What was the eye roll for?

Her : Cause you usually refer to me all the time.

Me : (continues laughing)  Yeah, let's go for it, might still go to The Haven in the morning, who knows?

Her : Hmmm

She was fed up always being the one.  The one who decided.  What to eat, where to go, when to  do this or that.  It got on her nerves, always being the one.  It was true that half the times he suggested something she'd find some reason not to do it, got there, eat that, but at least then she felt he'd made some contribution to the process, not just sloped shoulders and left it all to her.  And occasionally, very occasionally, he did come up with a good idea.  Very occasionally.

But today was his day.  He got the presents, he got taken out for  meal.  The least he could do was take a little responsibility as well.  Then he couldn't blame her if he didn't get the day he wanted.  If he knew what he wanted... which wasn't usually the case anyway.

It wasn't easy always being right.  

Day 146 - Clear and Transparent

 CLEAR AND TRANSPARENT 

Prompt - Clear and Transparent : Write a poem about being able to see through something

I can see through window panes

And the spray from an atomiser

But the clearest fabrications come

From the government's sacked adviser

I can see your boobs real clear

In that shimmering chiffon dress

But not as clear the PM's fibs

That tit's brought an Eton mess

I can see through ads on telly

And the plots of Archer's stories

But the most transparent lies of all

Are the ones that come from tories

Day 145 - Flying

 FLYING

Prompt - Flying : Write about having wings and what you would do

This is it, he thinks, I'm going back.  And away.  Back to those who created who I was, away from the ones who made me who I am now.  And I am someone, something, in between the two.    From the ones who accepted him to the ones who... he had no clear notion of what his reception might be, but it wasn't going to be like going back if he had still been who he was.

Time had been difficult to measure since the crash.  He remembered nothing of what happened, or his rescue and reconstruction by the birds.  He still had no proper understanding of how they did what they did, how they had mastered such a high level of medical and biological engineering, but he was living proof of their abilities.  He was a man, but a man with wings.  Great black and white feathered constructions, spreading out more than three metres when extended, but light and able to fold away tight into his back and sides, and functioned as if they'd always been a part of him, like he'd been born that way.  He was able to retract short arms from the wings, each ending in four jointed talon-fingers that allowed him to grasp and manipulate.  The rest of him was as it had been, but repaired and improved from the near lifeless being that had been pulled from the helicopter wreckage.  He'd been to see it, and it was a miracle that anyone had survived.  Why him?

But that, he reckoned, must have been about seven or eight years ago.  The birds didn't have the same concept of time as humans, and he'd had periods of unknown length where he'd been totally unaware of the world, so his estimate was mostly guesswork.  If he was right he must be about twenty eight now.  Somebody would be able to tell him.  If they'd even talk to him.

There had been no mirrors, but he'd looked at his reflection in still waters.  The best he could tell his face should still be recognisable to anyone who'd known him before.  His body was in better shape than it had ever been before.  Something that had been all too obvious, until he'd fashioned himself a leaves and feather suit, initially for temperature reasons, but it would do for modesty cover as well. 

For the past few months, as his confidence in his flying abilities had increased, he'd gone further and further, in different directions, improving his technique, learning to use the thermals effectively, and gradually figuring out the geography.  By piecing together mountain tops and river valleys and forests he'd built a mental map that matched those he'd been brought up with, and could say, with near certainty, that he knew the way home.  The birds were sad to see him go, but understood his desire to return.  They hoped they'd see him again.

He'd screeched his goodbyes and set off, climbing higher and higher to take in the landscape and allow himself longer periods of gliding when he could rest his flying muscles.  As the sun fell behind him he descended, looking for a place that would provide food and concealment.  A place where he could go over, once again, what he could possibly say to whoever he would first encounter.  And if he could make himself understood.  It had been so long since he'd talked in his native language, and although he'd practised the sounds out loud he wasn't confident he could make himself understood.  He had to stop thinking like a bird, and find a way to be a man.

Early morning and he stretched, preened, took to the air.  High, higher.  If anyone saw him he wanted to look like a bird, a winded shape in the sky.  He circled over the farm where he'd lived so much of his life.  Saw people moving.  Not just any people, but his people.  Father, brothers, sister, his friend Jaime who lived with them and looked after the cattle.  Even from his considerable altitude he could be certain.  Something else the birds had done for him.  Eagle eyes were well named. 

He could soar like this for the rest of the day.  Or he could pick one of those bipedal ants and go down to meet them.  The risks were high, but what else was there to do?  He chose Jaime, both because he was now distant from the others, and it might be marginally less traumatic for a non relative to see him reincarnated in feathered form.  

Gliding in from behind, the first Jaime knew of his arrival was the whooshing sound of his landing.  The man spun round, eyes and mouth wide, hands tensed as if to grasp the meaning of what was before him.

"Jaime."  He'd managed to pronounce it correctly, he was sure.  "It's me, Rubén.  I've come back.  I'm... changed" he added lamely.

The man saw a giant bird, some kind of mutant eagle perhaps, just ten meters away and screeching threateningly at him.  This creature could tear him apart if he let it, or it would be picking the new calves and carrying them off into the hills.  He couldn't let that happen.  Jaime dived to the tractor and pulled the rifle from it's mounting.  He saw the creature unfold it's massive wings, point them towards him, heard it shriek and howl, step flappingly towards him.  Rifle raised, bolt slammed, trigger pulled.  The giant bird staggered.  Another shot.  The bird fell, it's chest rising and falling, breathing sucking and bubbling.  It made one last sound before it died, less birdlike than before.  He thought it said "Jaime", but that was just his imagination.  Wasn't it?

Day 144 - Mystical Creatures

 MYSTICAL CREATURES

Prompt - Mystical Creatures : Angles, fairies or other mystical creatures - write about them!

"Hello dear."

I whipped around in shock at hearing a voice from what had been an empty space a minute before.  

"Sorry, did I shock you?  It must feel like I was creeping up on you."  She smiled warmly.  Unable to say anything for a few seconds, I took in this mystery woman who'd suddenly appeared in my bedroom.  About sixty I thought, middle height, wide hips, sturdy stance, round affectionate face topped with grey curls randomly sticking out form the strangest floral hat I'd ever seen, all pinks and yellows.  She wore a woolen twin set in salmon, straight from a 1950s knitting pattern.  Her voice was accented in a way that suggested English wasn't her first langage, yet at the same time imitated Home Counties  pretensions.  There was nothing about her that said threat, but she had mysteriously materialised so i could't be anything but suspicious.  She filled the silence.

"No doubt you're wondering who I am dear,and why I'm here.  Shall I fill you in on the details?"  I nodded.  "Let me give you the short version, then you can ask questions afterwards.  You are Gemma Stanton, we haven't met before, at least not in the sense you'd mean, but I do know a lot about you.  My name is Serena and I, and I know this will come as a bit of a surprise to you dear, I am your fairy godmother."

"What?"  I hadn't recovered my articulacy.  I wasn't sure my hearing was functioning properly either.

"I did say it would be a surprise, didn't I?  You weren't aware I existed, but I can assure you I'm real.  And I'm here to help."

"Fairy.  Godmother?  That's... There's...  You can't... Who are you really and whose idea was this?"  I was starting to feel annoyed, I'd never been much of a fan for practical jokes.  

Serena sighed, still smiling.  "Don't worry, this bit is always difficult, everyone finds it hard to believe at first.  So maybe i can lay on a little demonstration, to win you over."  She smiled even more broadly, appeared to be enjoying herself.  "Earlier this evening - and what a lovely night it is, don't you think? - earlier on you were getting a bit exasperated that you couldn't get the chord change right after the middle eight.  Try it now."  

She'd been listening in, must have been.  My window was open, and she'd heard me play the same section of the song over and over, trying to get the transition effect I wanted.  But why, how, would it be any different this time?

"I know, I know, what is the crazy old lady talking about?  Just humour me dear, go on.  You might find something's changed."

I still couldn't think what to say to her, and maybe shattering her daft fantasy would be a way to bring this charade to an end, so I turned back to the keyboard.  Picked up the tune a few bars from the end of the eight and... played something I'd never played before, a natural progression that lifted all that gone before and transformed the whole song.  How the hell had that happened?

I played it again.  It felt so right, so natural, I wondered why I hadn't thought of it right from the start.  I turned back to face a beaming Serena.

"I hate to say I told you so, but..."  She laughed, a laugh decade younger than her voice.

"How did you do that?  Did you do that?  What happened there?"

"All I did was unlock what was already there inside you.  You just hadn't found it yet.  But what you just played exactly fits the vision you began with, doesn't it?"

"Uh huh."  I still had no idea what was going on.  "And that was you doing that?"

"No, no, it was you dear, all you.  I just did a little unblocking."

I still had no idea what to say.  

"Perhaps one more little gift from me might help convince you?"  I said nothing, moved nothing, felt ever more unsure.  "You remember you were trying to play that boogie-woogie tune yesterday?"  I nodded.  "It was giving you a few problems, and you gave up in frustration.  I think maybe you should give it another go now.  Will you do that for me?"

What else could I do?  This was the strangest, scariest, stupefying event of my life so far, but it also felt transformative, even if I didn't have any understanding of what or how, or why.  I put fingers to keys again and played.  And played.  What had seemed so near to impossible the day before flowed from me today.  Behind me I could hear dance steps and little whops of joy.  

When I turned back Serena was redder of cheek, dishevelled of garb, and the wide smile has somehow got wider.  "Oh, I needed that, a good jig about was just what I needed.  And now... starting to believe in me yet?"

"Fairy Godmother?"

"Yes dear.  But we're not all like Cinderella's you know.  Not many of us left these days, it's so hard to get people to believe.  And if not enough believe, well, that's it for us.  It's belief that keeps us going.  So, you see, I need you as much as you may find you need me."

"And why do you think I 'need' you?"

She paused, looked thoughtfully at me, as if considering the best approach to whatever came next.

"D'you mind if I sit down?  Bit puffed after the knees up, not as young as I used to be."  She moved over to the bed and plonked herself down.  "Sorry about the cliches, one of the hazards of the job.  Got to slot into the stereotypes sometimes.

"Anyway, to business, if that's OK with you."  She swept on without waiting for an answer.  "You're seeing a producer on Tuesday and you need to impress him.  Do that and your career can take off, fail and you'll be stuck going round the bars doing open mic nights.  You've got a good collection of songs, but they're album material, not hits.  Or they weren't until a few minutes ago.  Keep going from that progression you came out with earlier and you'll find you have something wonderful on your hands.  So wonderful that he won't be able to ignore it.  Am I right so far?"

Yes.  But.. Yes.  You're right."  I knew she was.  I didn't know how I knew, but I did.

"You also need something that bit different to show your versatility.  There's a song about the suffragettes in your head, but you've never worked out what form to play it in.  But if you use your boogie-woogie abilities..."

She was right.  Again.  I could hear it in my head, couldn't wait to make a start.  But first I had to finish the song I'd been working on.  I turned back to the piano, looked at Serena.  She nodded.  I played, I sang, I wrote.  I did it.  But when I turned again, triumphant, she was gone.  

Had she ever been there?

Two days later I did my thing for the producer, he signed me up immediately, and that was where it began.  Today is the twenty first anniversary of the most marvellous, mystifying, mind blowing night of my life.  I still have no idea what happened.  But I do believe.  And I hope Serena's made it to some of my gigs.  I hope she danced.

Day 143 - Failure

 FAILURE

Prompt - Failure : Write about a time you failed at something.  Did you try again or give up completely?

Berster Lamp Table.  His first flatpack.  Should be simple enough.  Shouldn't it?  It looked simple enough when he'd first seen it.  Four curved metal legs rising up to support a circular wooden table top, with a small drawer underneath.  There's be instructions and he'd follow them to the letter.

So he sliced open the box, spread the cardboard wide.  Surely there were bits there he wouldn't need?  It seemed like an awful lot of bits for one wee table.  But he'd best crack on.  

He found the instructions.  So maybe he wouldn't be following them to the letter, because there weren't any.  Letters.  Or words.  Just numbers for all the different parts (although no explanation as to what they were, but maybe that would become clear...), and cartoonish diagrams showing a little person putting it all together.  The diagrams looked... well, he'd best give it a go.  But firsdt he'd get the screwdriver and hammer it said were all the tools he'd require.

He'd be methodical.  Not rush.  Didn't want to do anything silly.  Took everything out, one by one, tried to identify every part against the numbered pictures showing how many of each there should be.  Laid them neatly in what he thought was some kind of order, although in reality all he could do was group similar bits together.  Apart from the biggest items - table top, drawer sides, legs, that sort of thing - he still couldn't say what most of those bits did.  And why on earth was he going to need sixteen of those strangely broken wheels?

The slowest bit was counting out the tiny metal pieces.  Tiny nails, small boltish things with domed heads, thin bars of different lengths.  One of the longer ones was missing.  He checked again, looked inside what remained of the box, checked under the bits he'd already laid out.  Nope, it definitely wasn't there, although he did have what appeared to be an extra shorter bar.  Maybe that would do?  The missing part resembled a big nail, and he had some of those, so maybe he'd get one out and, when the time came, see if he was best using the small extra bit, or his own nail.  

He made a start.  It took him twenty minutes to figure out exactly what the first cartoon wanted him to do, having it upside down at one point, trying to get his head around it.  Eventually, by risking increasing levels of his very limited brute force, he got it done.  Time for a break and a drink...

He put it off as long as possible, found other tasks which suddenly became urgent, but back he came, ready to emulate the weird cartoon character as best he could.  And, to his surprise, it started to go well.  Things fitted together at the first, sometimes second, attempt.  The diagrams started to make more sense.  With bit of hammering and twisting he had something that looked very like a drawer.  It was when he came to mount it in the almost free standing frame he'd built that he had to make his choice.  Use the short extra bit, or his nail?  He tried out both, tried them both again, neither was exactly right, but neither exactly wrong either.  Which to go with?  After several minutes of not really having a clue he picked up the nail and went with it.  What was the worst that could happen?

And there it was.  A lamp table, with drawer, that looked almost, but not quite, like the final cartoon picture.  It seemed solid, enough.  He felt a surge of unanticipated pride, mingled with satisfaction and surprise.  It was hard to believe, but there it was.  His first bit of furniture that wasn't a hand me down or from a charity shop.  He went into the kitchen, filled the vase with water, and stuck in the bunch of flowers he'd bought that morning for just this moment.  Took it through and placed it carefully, delicately, on the new table.  Stood back a couple of steps to admire.  Just a bit too far.  He saw it happen, in slow motion, he watched and could do nothing.  That nail, his nail, squeezed out under the new weight above it, the table top took to tipping left, the vase began to slid, the legs began to part and, before he could react, had collapsed to the floor in a welter of twisting metal, unjoined, wood, squelching water and forlorn blooms.

He'd never buy flatpack again.