I like to think I know a little bit about a lot of things. A “jack of all trades, master of none” kind of guy.
The ship however, sailed long ago when it came to cars. Never took the time to really understand how they work, and have always relied on my mechanic to throw his head under the bonnet.
Oh yes, I’ll nod profusely when he starts talking about cylinders and torque and motor bits and bobs, all the while shaking my head on the inside knowing I’ve got very little idea what he’s on about.
It’s a bit like the time I accompanied my daughter to the used car yard as the possessor of all knowledge, the one who’ll spot a lemon from 100 metres when in reality my daughter would have ten times the car knowledge of her dear old hanger on.
It’s a sad world when stereotypes play such a role, but that’s a topic for another day.
I’m lucky that Mr Mechanic knows me well enough to tone down the trade lingo. “Don’t worry, Wayne,” he’ll say. “Cars are my thing. And we’ve all got our thing, right?”
My head had been vacant until that point. Just another Saturday, listening to the birds, admiring the trees, pretending to have a novice’s grip on car characteristics.
Not any more. Mr Mechanic, through all his years of worldly wisdom, had posed a question that got me thinking.
“We’ve all got our thing, right?”
Well, I’m not sure I do.
I’ve got my weekly routine which doesn’t shift an awful lot. I exist, and that’s pretty much it.
I’ll go shopping occasionally with Wanda, but that’s hardly a thing. And I wouldn’t dare call Wanda my thing. In fact, I wouldn’t dare call her “my” anything. Even to refer to her as “my girl” is probably outside acceptable politically correct boundaries these days.
I’ll dabble in a crossword. Might even finish it. Not my thing though.
Same goes for snooker, chess, a game of cards with the crew from down the road who’ll bring around a packet of cheese crisps and some French onion dip for morning tea while we supply the cuppa.
I make a nice coffee. Same again, though. Not really something I’d call my thing.
The greenkeeper at the local golf club will attest to the fact that golf’s not my thing. I’m a hack from way back, and I’ll hack until I can’t hack any more.
Folk at the bowls club set their eyes on the meat tray when they draw me in a Wednesday morning social game. I’m easy pickings, and while I dream of making the Commonwealth Games one day, deep down I know there’s plenty of room for improvement if that’s to become reality.
Work was work, but not really a thing. Family is wonderful, but hardly something you’d call a thing.
Wanda is wonderful in the kitchen. She’s got her thing.
Which I suppose gets me thinking. Should I be worried that I’ve spent all these years without perfecting anything that I can, hand on heart, stand tall and claim as my thing?
Have I missed out? Maybe I have, although I don’t really feel like I have. Maybe I’ll just have to invest in a few more golf lessons. Don’t scowl, Ms Greenkeeper. It’s a joke.
