Baby with a Law Degree

I’m basically a baby with a Law degree.

It’s strange – I can interpret legislation and solve legal conundrums just fine (I’m being quite generous here, but please bear with me), but I’ll be damned if I know how to ‘do’ things. If it requires assembly, planning or the application of recognised skills, I’m pretty much not your guy. In fact, I strongly urge you to remove me from your shortlist and burn that piece of paper to ensure that no remnant of my name could ever make it onto a future shortlist. Start again. No Sean – easy. Now, whatever it is you wanted to do will probably get done.

It’s embarrassing. I don’t know which way is North. I’ll die if I ever get lost in the bush. It’s probably why I don’t go camping. I can read a map, provided I walk in a straight line, it isn’t windy and nothing distracts me or takes me off course. Oh, I don’t like contours and stuff, so completely flat land is a MUST.

I don’t know what a volt is. I don’t know how many is TOO many. Are 4 million volts enough? More? If I am ever in charge of distributing volts (?), I will probably kill someone. If they require any first aid, again, I’m not your guy. I’ll be the one googling ‘man convulsing what to do?’

I don’t know any knots, I can’t cut straight (never could) and if technology ever breaks down at home I’ll literally be flung into the dark ages.

I don’t even remember how to do fun things. I don’t remember any jokes. I’ve heard a million of them and I’m not joking (ha) when I tell you that I LITERALLY cannot remember a single one. Oh, I don’t know any magic tricks – not even the ‘missing thumb’ trick. One day, my kids are going to be the most bored kids on the planet. Fact.

However, I did ‘construct’ the spice rack at home. But if I am to be completely honest, I have a funny feeling it’s not going to last long enough to show any future generations. I don’t tell my wife, but I occasionally look out for new spice racks (ones that are less likely to fall off/unravel/disintegrate).

Sometimes I think my law degree isn’t even real. Like it’s printed on fortune cookie paper and part of some elaborate (and funny, if I may say so) plan to get me off university premises.

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