Thanks to my jittery hands—from injury and PTSD and meds V the effects of each—and fingers that spring open of their own accord I have difficulty with handling objects; the smaller and more fiddly the greater the difficulty. Sometimes my son will chuck a challenge at me like a peeling the wrapper from a Chuba Chub. I call these moments "adventures with everyday objects" in that I get to have these adventures with everyday objects: will he pick it up it? can he even hold it? are his fingers going to spring open and drop it? That sort of shit. I was near the back of the assembly at school and because I didn't have elastic (slash) rubber bands on my wrists to stop me picking at my face I picked at the wall instead, teasing out lumps of Blu-Tack that had clung to the bricks from posters past.As we left I had a pea-sized lump of the good stuff stuck disc-style to my thumbnail. I forgot about it until I was in the shed then plucked it off and restored it to pea-size and shape. I had a poster that needed Blu-Tack so I reached with the other hand for it whilst holding the pea between thumb and finger-fore.That's when the fuckers sprung open and I lost my pea of Blu-Tack to a shedfold—the gap between the concrete slab and the outside where the shed wall meets the floor and the outer rib of the shed metal allows objects to drop beyond the boundary of the slab.. There are at least 16 shedfolds where it could have gone. I gave up after poking at three after having lowered myself to the floor in the vain hope of finding it.Then there was the two minute journey back to my feet of levering myself to my knees then shuffling to a position where I could push up because my gestational malformed skeleton cries havock if I try to use my legs—even though they're muscly as fuck for a man with bones that don't work quite right. So that was my adventure with an everyday object; a pre-loved pea of Blu-Tack I'd reclaimed from a wall then lost to the dark innards of a shedfold.Jittery hands are balls [if you don't like balls].