Patience of a Minx

It goes without saying that we're all different, I know, but, even after fifty years, I still get surprised by just how different. My colleague, Martin, for example, relishes detail to pretty much the same extent that it makes me feel itchy and like I want to run away somewhere. (I like to think this is why we're a good team.)

I like concepts and ideas, I like the big picture, and I like to get down to the level of detail precisely where I know an idea will work and no further. I mean, what's the point of going beyond that? 

Similarly, I like systems. I like rules and scripts and programs that will take care of monotonous, repetitive jobs. This weekend, for example, I managed to sort out the massive hash that iTunes has made of my music library by eliminating the duplicates programmatically (although God knows how long it's going to take me to identify all the missing tracks and then get them back).

The Minx, though, is the opposite of that. You only have to look at one of her drawings to consider not just how many hours it must take to make those thousands of pencil strokes but also the unfathomable patience involved. (I am reminded here of my daughter, Hannah, who once drew a picture of a snowman and then filled the rest of the paper with abutting snowflakes.)

I mention all this because a couple of weeks ago we bought a Karcher. (One of us was more excited about this than the other.) And today, while i recorded the radio show and did various other chores, the Minx spent four hours pressure cleaning the drive. Each time I went out to take her a cup of tea or a glass of water, I'd look at what she'd done and how much there was left to do. 

And where I would have been agitated and constantly thinking about some easier way of doing it - an acid spray, perhaps, or simply getting the drive replaced - she was relaxed and happy, just getting on with the job. I wonder what it's like to be like that?