measure twice, cut once

I attempted to put together a drawing table today thinking I had the proper tools to do it. Its the kind of table a graphic designer would have used back in the good old days when graphic design studios smelled of rubber cement, paper, spray mount, carpet and brick; back when the Exacto blade, halftone and T-square were king.

This table was bought back in a time when I thought I needed it and didn't really, but find that it might ultimately come in handy as a working desk now. The table comes as things of quality often come; not pret-a-porter (at least I'd like to hope that the lack of pre-drilled holes in the table top is a mark of quality in this flat-pack, pre-drilled universe). I have to use the long-suffering Black & Decker drill that lives in the shed to the drill holes.

This is a measure-twice-cut-once situation.

I spent about a half-hour taping the mount components of the desk's legs to the underside of the white table top, trying my best to eyeball the alignments, using duct tape to secure them in place. I sat on my legs and held the screws and the smallest drill bit I could find up side by side and tried to gauge whether or not the bit was small enough to let the screws bite.

I held the bit the wrong way: tail side up to screw point up. It was the wrong kind of bit and made a massive hole.

I only messed up one insert before I realised that I was doing the wrong thing. No panic. I'll go and get a smaller bit tomorrow. Or short screws with wider teeth...

I sit back and think about how that's so like me: winging it always, never quite starting off exactly right but getting it right eventually.

Measure twice, cut once.

I don't always follow that rule when there's a margin for error. I prefer imperfections. It doesn't matter. And come to think of it, I have measured. I measure all the time. It's trusting my judgment that needs work.

This desk, these screws, this drill has become a metaphor for my life right now.

I do have a moment of wondering the following: who cares?

To hell with the desk.

Suddenly there's a bottle of vodka in the cupboard with my name on it.

Who needs to make this easy or rational when all I feel is absolute, unleashed sense of disconnection?

And on the radio comes The Clash asking should I stay or should I go?