And then I spent some of the last week reglazing a window in my mother's house.
It is that putty, you know. There is something about the way that the powdery chalk whiting surrenders itself to the golden, treacly viscosity of the linseed oil; the way the fluid soaks into the solid as it is pummelled and kneaded; the way the whole takes on life of its own as it warms in your hands, a character so very different from that of its constituents.
Quite erotic is what it is, really. And the linseed oil is very good for your hands, I am sure.
You know, if this were fiction, I would be giving up the day job to be a glazier's oik, for the opportunity to spend my days making up and handling a world of linseed-oil putties.
This being Real Life(TM) I have been contemplating a career of minor vandalism, with subsequent hangdog offers of restitution by replacing the broken windows myself.
The catch is that I do not have a great desire to waste time cutting glass or painting over the damage afterwards, so I am looking to recruit someone who is turned on by the excitment of a clean cut across a sheet of glass, and a wet-paint fetishist, for some urban cricket practice.