“When the pencil hits the paper, you’ll know.”
My Occupation Therapist was losing patience with me.
In retrospect, I’m amazed that it took him so long to suggest the simple act of drawing.
I’d tried basketweaving until I accidentally poked Alister in the eye with a bit of bamboo. Didn’t mean to, not really, but he does give everyone the shits.
Gardening didn’t work out too well either. Gardeners are very possessive, and old Mr Jones was sure I was using his tools. The wound on the back of my head gave me a couple of days off from ‘activities’, and Mr Jones got the padded room. My head hurt like fuck, but I still managed to give him the finger as they dragged him off.
“Stay away from my peas,” the old bastard said.
Why would I want to interfere with his peas?
“The residents don’t like blood on their produce,” was the parting comment from Derek, our OT.
No more gardening for me.
Woodworking was out of the question, “until you can show that you won’t hurt yourself or anyone else.”
I’m a good woodworker, but I wasn’t going to tell them that. I spent a couple of summer holidays working for an old-time cabinetmaker. Grumpy old bloke, but I liked him. I made a perfect dovetailed miniature drawer and put it in his grave. I got a few strange looks from the other mourners, but I know he would have liked it.