Melbourne-based writer and journalist. Purveyor of finally crafted radio plays. A Muppet of a man.
Many people somewhere in their house have a dusty, never opened, thousand-piece monstrosity mocking them with their three-pronged superiority. They may have a scene from a book or a movie, a far-flung European castle or perhaps a strangely adorned Geddes baby that these days would maybe classify as child abuse.
Tucked away among my latest haul of Christmas presents last year was a Where’s Wally jigsaw puzzle. I’ve known people who find these a fun, challenging pastime, but personally I’d rather put them in the “frustrating” category — they’re something that I would start earnestly and would soon give up on, destined to lose a large portion of the kitchen table for at least five months to it’s partially completed presence.
Determined not to let this one needlessly clutter up the spare room, I opened it with confidence I didn’t feel. A puzzle is usually completed, if at all, in the following manner:
While I have known people who frame their completed jigsaw puzzles, I don’t need to be constantly reminded of my sense of achievement. But at least I can say that, for a few days at least, I achieved a thousand pieces of greatness. I even have the photo to prove it.