I requested, and duly received, a jigsaw for Christmas. (And a colouring book – but the stress of trying to colour inside the lines nearly gave me a coronary). I thought a jigsaw might help calm my mind and stop me monkey braining all over the bloody shop. And it’s a spacey themed one so double the fun. Truth is it’s sent me a bit doolally. I started it last weekend and now I’m hyperfocusing on the bastard thing and it’s become another metaphor for my life.
See the top left there? (Ignore the cute dog – I’ll come to that later – I don’t know how to crop pictures in WordPress). Well fuck me if there aren’t bits missing.
I waited for just the right conditions to start the jigsaw. I can’t remember what they were but there was something in the air and I thought “this is a good day for a jigsaw. It’s a jigsaw kinda day” as I lay on the bed, legs akimbo, waiting for the Immac to work its magic on my winter plumage. So I wiped all the crumbs and other detritus off the kitchen table
onto the floor with my arm with a Dettol antibacterial kitchen wipe and out came the jigsaw. Re the table; purchased from the British Heart Foundation for forty quid, it’s the kinda table you’d have laid out the deceased on in days gone by (I’d imagine, although it’s a Seventies design so I’ve clearly gotten a bit confused there with my imaginings) and invited the neighbours in to gawp at them to say goodbye over a scone and a sherry. It’s a massive table. It’s got extra panels that slot in with a satisfying click. It had a lovely patina when I bought it but the cleaner (don’t you cocking well judge me) sprayed bleach on it to clean it and that was that. Patina = fucked. But it remains a marvellous piece of engineering and very jigsaw worthy, as it turns out.
So much for hoping the jigsaw would calm my mind. I’m scared the world ends before I finish it. I wake up thinking about it. So far I’ve only managed to do the outline with the exception of the missing bits. I’m obsessed with the missing bits. I’ve done three full sweeps of the box. THREE. Every single piece has been in my hands and examined closely for edges. I know I’m stressed because I’m humming. I hum when I’m stressed. I’ve been humming a lot during this icy weather. The stress of walking and staying upright on slippery pavements makes me hum. I walk past the jigsaw humming and sometimes look back quickly to see if I can catch it out. I’m even eyeing up Tucker. I’m convinced he’s eaten the missing bits. I might shake him upside down and see if they fall out, but if his response to the new brush I attempted to brush him with earlier is anything to go by I won’t bother. Crabbit little shit. I’ve checked his bed too, to no avail, but I did find my purple bra with the bow chewed off it.
The other worrying thing about the jigsaw is that I’m not really a completer. I’m more yer ideas wummin and get bored with longer term implementation. So the jigsaw, whilst it remains unfinished, is just something else for me to beat myself over the head with, figuratively speaking. I can’t see it ever finished, and it’s no good if somebody else does it. If somebody so much as touches it, I whimper, especially if they finish a bit I was enjoying, like for example the rings round Saturn. A visiting child touched it earlier today. I glared at it.
My life is a lot like the jigsaw of doom. I’ve got missing bits and I’ll be lovely when I’m complete. I don’t know what the missing bits of my life are though. A relationship? It’s safe to say I’m crap at them so I’m not in a hurry to shake Tucker upside down and see if one of them falls out. A Valentine’s card would be nice though. Not a sympathy one though – a real one, from a real admirer HINT HINT. So if you’re reading this and thinking I mean you, just assume I do. And I still haven’t been to the fucking Kelpies.
I forgot to mention cute dog in picture above. It’s Yoda. I think it might be a French bulldog. Can’t remember. I was too busy guarding the jigsaw.