things move around

I spent Saturday out of doors, labouring - not in the giving birth sense of the word, but in the horny-handed son of toil, labor omnia vincit sense. Although my labour wasn’t especially hard, it was sufficient to inflict an assortment of aches on my thumbs, shoulders and my left flank, close to where my kidney supposedly is. I’m not into DIY, but I don’t mind getting stuck in with honking great prybars, hefting timber, creosoting, things of that nature. I agree with whoever it was that said every creative act is first an act of destruction, although that sounds a little bit marxist. Ah, it was Picasso. I’d like to see him wielding a six-foot prybar, fuelled by sausages and cider.