The right foot is a shoveling foot. Not the first time it's failed to respond to instructions without kicking up a fuss, moaning and groaning. So I have learned not to shout at it, learned to accept it as a Bolshevik, and in the process I have in the past gained insights into the nature of the revolutionary angst I too am prone to. My left leg has always been a quarrelsome little bastard, but I am able to blame it's character flaws almost entirely upon English cousins. A long rather dull story that includes a field game called 'Hide and Seek.' A most pointless game topped only in it's pointlessness by another field game called 'British Bulldogs.'
Either way without access to working legs and and their feet, a Gardener has a
chance to indulge one or other of his many passions. Quite what they are
have yet to be determined, which means I might have to buckle under, get with
the program, understand the nature of discipline, become hard, cruel and mean.
Which is I've decided the only a way a person can even begin to think about
writing their own interview for "Halibut's End Story," "Saint Haddock's
Book," "Mr. Cod's Tanager." All of them fishy tales of an as yet to be
identified 'genre.' I feel confident that hobbling around in great pain
may at least go some way toward identifying what the word 'genre' might mean.