1. Ride a bike. It's an inner ear thing, once the stabilisers came off, so did I. I guess I'll never win the Tour de France now.
2. Do the finger clicking thing. You know, like all the cool hep cats do along to music? I used to resort to miming the action while in the school choir, I'm afraid my fingers stay resolutely quiet.
3. Tie a knot in a cherry stalk with my tongue. Twin Peaks has a lot to answer for...
4. Bake a cake without burning or otherwise ruining it. I know a workman shouldn't blame his tools, but my oven is decidedly eccentric in its cooking times, so it's not all my own fault. Come to think of it, I've had a series of similarly inclined ovens, what were the chances?
5. Chop wood. I may be a dab hand around the house, and the world of DIY holds no fears for me (though I firmly believe that plumbing should be left to the experts beyond the level of washer-replacement), but put an axe in my hand and I turn into a pathetic incompetent girly wimp. Luckily there's this handy thing called gas central heating, so I don't suffer too badly as a result.
6. Play guitar, preferably quite well. I got one when I was about twelve, adjusted for left-handedness and everything, but unfortunately the neck was quite wide, and my little hands had difficulty holding down chords. Wish I'd stuck with it though.
7. Sustain an interest in gardening beyond a couple of hours a month or so. People would have you believe that gardening is a gentle relaxing hobby, but this is far from the truth. In actuality it is physically exhausting, back-breaking work, and pleasing results require careful planning and time-consuming execution. I'd love to have a beautiful, well-maintained garden to sit out in, but it's far too much like hard work.
8. Make a decision. Never been my strong point this one, and I seem to be in the habit of acquiring equally indecisive friends. Which leads to conversations like the following:
"Where do you want to go?"
"I don't know, wherever you want"
"I don't mind, what do you feel like?"
"Oh whatever, you choose"
"That's okay, I'm happy doing whatever you want to do"
"I really don't mind, it's up to you"
"Look, just say what you want to do..."
"Why me? Why can't you decide? I always have to decide!"
"No you don't! Just make up your mind, will you, we can't just stand here all day"
"Well if you're going to be like that, I don't want to do anything..."
Try it yourself, it's great fun.
9. Climb a tree. I was never a tomboy, I was a girly girl, in pretty dresses with bows in my hair. In retrospect I could have stood to get a bit more dirty.
10. Dye my hair lighter. My hair is naturally very dark, only changing colour with the application of a large dose of bleach. This somewhat limited my youthful dyeing experiments, as the best I could achieve was "looks a bit red/purple/whatever when the light hits it a certain way". Having seen the unfortunate results when I did go the whole hog (assorted shades of carrot orange is such a good look) this may have been a blessing in disguise. And anyway, brunette is best.
1 comment:
Betwixt the above enumerated unfulfilled wishes: an arbitrative solution (a compromise of sorts). Number 8 is the key. Most of these things have a kinetic theme. Forget the axe (5) and buy a good set of golf clubs -- I believe you are in Scotland? Envious Vonhiggins! Proceed then to the nearest driving range with a friend or two. That is where you'll satisfy the urge to swing at and clobber an innocent inanimate object. After learning the golf basics you'll want to start playing, and get an official handicap. Where is this leading? I'll tell. It will be impossible for those gentlemen golfers to resist the girlie girliness you so improperly demote. Once the gentleman is secured, variations of numbers 4, 3, and 2 can not be too far away. Prior to the golf escapade Betsie might consider keeping the dark hair (10) and letting the local stylist accentuate it with a new coiffure. Finally, it is never too late to start up the guitar lessons again. Inspiration might arise from listening to Django Reinhardt, as one might imagine Jack Pickford, before his demise, listening to the young guitarist at some Paris cabaret or guinguette. I don't know how to work gardening (7) and tree climbing (9) into this dubious plan, however.
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