Shtick in the Mud

I'm feeling a bit dry. Creative-wise, rather than body moisture-wise.

I'm bored of work. That's no surprise. I'm also bored of Twitter, which is a surprise. It's probably just temporary, but I've started to find my own shtick wearying.

Hey. Shtick only has one 'c'. That's the greatest surprise of all.

I'd like to move to a tropical island. I can't decide how inhabited it should be. I'd probably need some people around to make pizza and deliver pizza and dispose of pizza boxes. It's going to be a mainly pizza-based economy.

Or maybe it should be a totally untouched paradise. Lucy and I can drink from coconuts and befriend turtles. We can sleep in the leafy canopy and play pineapple golf. Reliable Wi-Fi might be a problem, but I'm sure a few palm trees and electric eels will keep things ticking over.

This is already more plausible than Lost.

Maybe amnesia would help. I don't know if controlled forgetfulness is more or less achievable than a monkey-run sand hospital, but I could give it a try.

Each day, I'd be newly amused by my own antics.

Ha! Sand hospital!

Novelty becomes harder to come by as you get older. Just like Drifter chocolate bars. Memory is the problem - like a bacteria that infects a once-fresh idea, leaving it wilting and grey.

That's why people with degenerative brain diseases are always so chipper!

On the other hand, memory can be useful. It's no good being able to tell yourself the same joke every day if you can't remember your email address.

OK. So I'll keep the memory.

Maybe gravity is the problem. Same old boring stick-me-to-the-ground gravity. Gravity is such a drag. Or is that friction...? Either way, life would be a whole lot more exciting if we were floating around. Think of all the things you could do!

Go on, I'll wait.

...

Pretty good, right?

Also, it would take Superman down a peg or two. Or up. Depending on our airborne orientation. Then again, he can propel himself somehow. Really fast. We'd just be flapping around like meat butterflies. Best not to rile Superman. He's under enough pressure as it is.

Well, how about a new haircut?

That might snap me out of my malaise. I'd love to have some kind of blonde bob. People could call me "the blonde bobshell". If they had a cold.

I suppose these lulls just come along every now and then. I'll feel better in a few days - tweeting like the wind, laughing at my own passé hair, grateful for gravity, non-eeled.

I'm grateful that I can share these thoughts here. I can't afford to see a psychiatrist.

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In other news, my mild dissatisfaction wasn't one of the main stories.

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In udder news, milk production continues despite some experts claiming "lactation leads to eventual death in 100% of mammals". Some things are worth dying for, I suppose.

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In smother news, it takes longer than you might think to suffocate an inanimate clay rhinoceros.

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I made a clay rhino at school once. It was a white rhino. I'm not sure why I chose that particular rhino. Probably an innate Aryan bias. I didn't sculpt a black mamba. Though that might be anti-reptile prejudice, rather than racism. A black mamba would have been easier to make, too.

I remember my rhino's horn didn't last long. Sticking-out bits are vulnerable when a clumsy child is around. And a clumsy child was around, Jamie. Don't think I've forgotten.

I don't have a natural aptitude for sculpture. Later on, I did make a disturbing glazed monster that survives to this day (though is missing a couple of teeth). I'll try to find it and analyse it in depth.

I was never very good at art. The things I drew tended to look unlike any known physical object. I couldn't draw noses. Or arms. Or a curved, pencil line. My painting skills were poor. My parents sent me to an art class for a while, but my goat painting failed to win any acclaim.

I'm not sure why I use the pejorative term 'sent me' there. What I mean is my parents kindly gave me many opportunities to try creative things. I'm very grateful for that, even though I hated most of them (the classes, not the parents).

There was the art class, piano lessons, learning how to do computing (which was phenomenally prescient of them), judo (I lasted one lesson), science experiments, guerrilla warfare, sword juggling, bear-baiting, bait-bearing, horse chestnuts.

I might have imagined some of those...

What fantastic parents! They gave me all the chances I could possibly need to be a genius.

And now look at me.

They didn't sent me to blog college.

Maybe I should try to sculpt again. At the time I made that white rhino, they were highly endangered. But now they seem to be thriving:

Almost at the edge of extinction in the early 20th century, the southern subspecies has made a tremendous comeback. In 2001 it was estimated that there were 11,670 White Rhinos in the wild with a further 777 in captivity worldwide, making it the most common Rhino in the world.

The Northern White Rhino still seems to be in trouble, but who cares about that? I only like southern whites. I should move to Georgia.

Now I'm not saying that my sculpture was the only reason that the white rhino is no longer endangered. But sometimes art can highlight societal and natural problems. And who's to say that a young conservationist didn't see my sculpture, all battered and hornless, and feel compelled to save the species? Who's to say that? I don't think anyone is to say that.

So if I do get back on the sculpting horse, maybe I can save a few more species. I might be able to boost the numbers of the Chacoan peccary, or the Woolly Tapir.

I might win a Nobel prize! For clay-work and environmentalism. I could be a cross between Michelangelo and Oskar Schindler.

The only thing that might hold me back is my ignorance of when to capitalise animal names. Is it White Rhino or white rhino? Woolly Tapir or woolly tapir?

Also, my knowledge of goat anatomy is poor.

And I'm prejudiced against lizards. And non-whites.

Maybe I should lower my expectations.

A Drifter will do nicely.