The seat of the trouble

There seems to be some confusion amongst the reader; am I making a chair then? Or am I not making a chair?

Well the answer to that is, erm, yes...?

At good moments, like when the Stanley #50 decides to behave itself and runs off a perfect bead without a hitch, I've decided I will. But at 4 o'clock in the morning, woken from terrible nightmares in which I'm pursued by blood-hungry travishers and inshaves with nothing but an A-2 plane iron to defend myself (which I can't sharpen in time because in my desperate search for sharpening media I can only find oilstones. Endless oilstones. Every oilstone I look under, another oilstone. Open drawers overflowing with oilstones. Buckets of oilstones filled at a tap, itself filling a sink with oilstones. Good ones mind you; hard Arkansas, but all too slow...), I'm equally certain I won't . Essentially it boils down to your guess being as good as mine.

But a small moment of decision-making did result in placing the order for JB's book. It's hardly setting anything in stone, but it's a tentative step towards my doom.

And before you book me in for an urgent appointment with a canvas jacket and Professor Beetlebaumhausen, naturally I'm making up the oilstone nightmare for comic effect. Ha ha. As if I'd be so unhinged as to be running around looking for something other than an oilstone.

No, it's the overflowing buckets of waterstones that are keeping me awake...