So, I saw the name Francesca Jones pop up somewhere the other day, the tennis player. People talk about her condition, you know, with her hands and feet. It got me thinking, not really about tennis specifically, but about how folks perceive limitations.
It threw me back years ago, when I decided I wanted to get good at restoring old furniture. Not the fancy antique stuff, just solid old wooden pieces nobody wanted. I got myself some basic tools, set up a little space in the garage. My neighbor, bless his heart, came over once, saw me wrestling with a wobbly chair leg, sanding it down all wrong probably.
My Early Attempts
He gave me that look, you know? The one that says “you haven’t got a clue, mate”. He started explaining how his brother-in-law does it professionally, all the expensive gear he has. He meant well, I suppose, but it felt like he was saying I was wasting my time, that because I wasn’t born with a chisel in my hand or didn’t have the ‘right setup’, I shouldn’t even bother.
- I remember feeling pretty deflated after he left.
- Spent a lot of time just looking at the half-sanded chair.
- Almost packed it all up.
But then I just got annoyed. Who cares if it wasn’t perfect? Who cares if I didn’t do it the ‘proper’ way? It was for me. So, I picked up the sandpaper again. My process was messy, took way longer than it should have. I made mistakes, plenty of them. Gouged the wood here, used the wrong varnish there.
I didn’t suddenly become a master craftsman. Far from it. But piece by piece, I figured things out. Found my own rhythm. Fixed up an old bookshelf, then a small table. Gave them away to friends or just used them myself. They weren’t perfect, had character, let’s say.
Seeing that name, Francesca Jones, just reminded me of that feeling. It’s not about having the perfect conditions or everyone believing in you. It’s about the sheer stubbornness of wanting to do something and figuring out your own way to get it done, step by clumsy step. You just crack on.
