Burma Cyclone

Not usually my habit to use this blog for such things, but if you're wanting to help but all the reports of obstruction from the Burmese authorities is bothering you, it seems Shelter Box have managed to already get in and distribute their first boxes. No affiliation, just if you're looking for someone who's actually making a difference instead of a point...

Oh, and it's not entirely off topic - there are tools in the box!

And because unfortunately the comments aren't sorted by date, those of you who may be interested in more info on the "#2" turned into a scrub way back in the mists of time, might want to go and see the latest info BugBear has found. Can't believe he didn't buy it for 50p with the box. Sheesh. Picky, picky...

Buon giorno

Or for those of you, like me, who can't speak a word of Italian - Good Day. Thursday seems, inadvertently, to be becoming my Good Day to blog. Dunno why, but there we go.

For those of you who do speak Italian, you might already be familiar with the woodworking forum Il Truciolo. Well a charming, but evidentally insane, gentleman from there by name of Antonino asked whether he could translate some of my reviews into Italian for the site and being the easily-flattered pawn that I am, I said "okay". And behold, the first one is now available. Unfortunately you'll have to register to see it, and the nature of the forum software is such that translating stuff if you're not fluent in Italian is a bit tricky, but should you be interested... 

As ever, English is comprehensively knocked into a cocked hat by the sheer beauty imparted to any phrase when written or spoken in a more poetic tongue. Viz; doth not:

"Per cominciare, devo confessare che non sono un grande utilizzatore di scrub plane"

sound a lot better than:

"Right up front, I must confess I’m not a great user of scrub planes"?

Heck, I can practically hear the famous "utilizzatore di scrub plane" aria wowing the audience at Covent Garden. Mind you I've been hearing a lot of strange things lately; time to increase the medication again methinks... ;-)

Rebel Rebel

Yes, it's me. Surprised? Me too. You might know me from such blog musings as "what is it with Polos?" and "The stand-in hands". The latter is particularly relevant just now. The hibernating bear that was Lee Valley's R&D department suddenly stirred last week and a small deluge of opinion-seeking goodness hit my doormat. Naturally it's largely hush-hush (please, don't throw things - I'd tell you if I could, honest I would) but El Presidente has let the biggest cat out of the bag. Viz:

Alf likes a handle.

Not so sure about the whole angels and harps thing - could be Rob needs his medication adjusting there - but I do, indeed, find myself liking a LV handle. Well a sort of a handle. Not exactly a tote, not exactly a knob. Not exactly anything you're probably trying to imagine in fact, but it is, in my opinion, Good. It appears that the Veritas Big Chief Designing Gurus are hitting something of a rich vein of form, which should be cause for celebration for all Neanderthals. All looking interesting just now, boys and girls. And no, they're not paying me to say that. Dammit, they're not paying me at all. I know what you're thinking - what a div (Slang. Noun. An idiot, a pitiable person, a contemptible person). Yeah, sometimes I'm thinking that too. Other times I think "lucky blighter" and keep quiet in case it goes away. 

Well, wouldn't you...?

Of course I'm slightly miffed that my position as known handle-hater is somewhat undermined. On the other (freaky) hand, everyone seems to have jumped on the handle bandwagon these days, so maybe it's time to set a new trend anyway. I'm sure tool designers everywhere are utterly thrilled that I'm probably going to start getting picky about something else now... Naturally that presupposes I'll actually get into the workshop a bit more at some stage, which a nice thought I'd like to cling onto just now. No, don't wake me from this pleasant dream; it's nice here and I like it...

Golden Years

Should you ever happen across me anywhere on the face of the interweb, muttering at length on the evils of poly-uckathane varnish, don't think it's from a position of strength now, will you? No, it's not because my hand is innocent of inflicting such horror; rather that's it's largely based on personal experience. One such varnished chicken came home to roost not long ago. Talk about a blast from the past - an early endeavour that was condemned to be returned to its perpetrator on the demise of the owner. There's an argument against living a long life, if ever I came across one. The idea of further youthful projects returning like so many homing pigeons is enough to make me wake up in the early hours in a cold sweat. But that's by the by.

Here's the darn thing. Yellow with varnish and definite signs that not all the glue was removed before the finish was dribbled on.

Oooo, and look at that nasty "seam" there too. Don't even start on the angles at the corners...

No, don't start there 'cos it's so much more obviously wrong on the bottom. D'oh.

On the plus side, the lid's a good snug fit and the felt lining hasn't parted company yet.

Now October/November 1993 - that's what? 14 1/2 years ago. At least I knew what the ruddy wood was I used back then... Like the built-up "joinery"? Yeah, half the reason for the gloopy finish was to keep the thing in one piece!

Unfortunately for my defence, what isn't immediately obvious in photographs is that the substrate for this parquetry box is actually balsa wood. And nothing reveals that it was made exclusively with a scalpel, straight edge and cutting mat. Oh, and lots and lots of glue. Frankly I look at it and wonder how in hell I did it. I think I'll call it the "arrogance of ignorance". I didn't know it was insane, not to say probably impossible, so I just did it.

I must confess, despite the myriad faults exemplified by this box, I find myself suffering something of a twinge of jealousy for that daring scalpel-wielder of 15 years ago. These days it seems like I know about 10,00 ways any one aspect of any project can go wrong; and now I know it can, it seems it frequently does. Is it like not showing fear to dogs? Does my anxiety transmit itself to the wood? Who knows? But sometimes it does feel as though the paralysis of knowledge has made me much less productive, rather less daring, and just possibly, I'm having rather less fun too...

Moral of the story? Erm... treasure your ignorance? No, that can't be right...