A plastic Airfix model kit sits across from my writing chair. It’s grey, small, and some kind of European fighter jet. Unassembled.
It was such a thoughtful birthday present, but now guilt hits each time it catches my eye, distracting me from writing. I really must get around to making it. This weekend, I promise myself. Before my daughter asks about it again.
I was instantly taken back to childhood on receiving it; assembling models in my bedroom, sweating in the almost unbearable summer heat, never having enough gunmetal grey paint. And what about the time I stuck my fingers together, a rite of passage for every model builder.
All that was a long time ago now, and I’m most ashamed to say I’ve not replicated any of the fond memories yet. First I realised I didn’t have any of the right tools, nor could I get Amazon ‘age verification’ to work, preventing a modelling tool kit with a knife from being delivered.
Then I realised the cheap £9.99 model only included three basic paint colours, not the full 15 colours required for a ‘realistic’ looking finished model. Black and white weren’t even included. Then there was the 1:144 scale, meaning the cockpit controls are absolutely miniature. I don’t have a magnifying glass or tweezers.
“Isn’t model building meant to be a fun activity for a Sunday afternoon, Frank?” Indeed. That’s my wife pointing out the bleeding obvious, so obvious that I had completely lost sight of it.
I remember happily gluing bits together as a ten year old kid, not the angst or perfectionism that seems to be killing the fun today.
I’m setting a really bad example for my daughter, who is waiting to see my delight, confused as to why I’ve still not started the build. I feel bad about the whole thing.
Either build it tomorrow, or quietly put the whole lot in the bin. Enough is enough.