I thought I was going to be great at woodwork, I really did.
There was television show when I was kid, in which a teenage girl was excellent at it, completely beyond what is humanly possible, she was that good.
Something in me expected the same to happen for myself. Probably needless to say; it didn’t go to plan.
I am rubbish at woodwork, utterly rubbish, the absolute worst. The tools freak me out, and so do the scary stories the teachers always told. I was not good with a saw, and too often I let other people do my work for me instead of doing it myself.
In one school, I made a pencil holder. The holes were a little crooked, but it was alright. It functioned, and that was enough. In a second school, we had to make a holder of some kind. I picked a box, fairly basic I thought, only we had to chop the wood by hand and even after a term of work I was left with no more than 5 crooked and unusable pieces of wood. The third school, it was a spinning top. I don’t really know how that went, because I did so little of it myself. All I was really involved in was decorating with the burning tool after it was finished, at which point I managed to burn myself and lost interest.
It just didn’t go as I thought it would. My woodworking dreams did not come to fruition. I will never be the Queen of mother’s day gifts, I will never craft a hat stand I don’t need. That’s life. Despite how much I thought it would be my one true talent, woodworking was just never destined to be my forte.