When I was a young man with a young family, full of optimism and confidence, it seemed that I had such a firm grip on the balls of life that the future would cater for all my whims and follies.
I decided to buy a small rural property on the hills overlooking the Pacific Ocean, about half an hour out of town. My friend from University, an architect, designed a house for us, and I commenced my short career as an owner-builder.
Our bricklayer, Luigi, was an excellent tradesman, but had some difficulty finding regular work because of his Tourette's.
So when my lovely young wife and I would visit the building site to observe the unsettling alchemy of our savings being transformed into a domestic residence, we would announce our arrival by calling out a greeting to Luigi, perched high on his evolving brick wall, to which he would reply "Fuck! Fuck! Cunt!"
I translated this as not only an indication of his views of the outcome of the mind-numbingly boring reality of his career choice, but also an accurate reflection of our feeling about the rapidly diminishing size of out bank balance, and I had to agree with his assessment.
But Luigi, horrified and humiliated by his involuntary outburst, would then punish himself by smashing his trowel across his shins, blood running freely down his legs.
******
I arranged for him to see a local general practitioner, who, in an epic demonstration of his commitment to symptomatic therapy, prescribed cricket pads.
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