The boys taped the picture to the maple with the graphite down and carefully drew over the pig outline. When they untaped the pattern and lifted it from the wood, the drawing had been transferred to the maple. Each boy was given a coping saw, and over the next three club meetings, they cut the pig shape out of the wood. Then they were given sandpaper. “A cutting board,” Mr. Graves told the boys, “needs to be smooth as glass so your mother doesn’t get a splinter when she uses it.” After they had smoothed the board, they oiled it with tung oil. That “raised the grain” and they had to use fine steel wool to smooth it back down to its glassy finish. Finally, the boys had to mark the spot for the center of the half-inch hole that would be drilled in the pig’s tail so it could be hung on a peg. Each boy took his pig to Mr. Graves and positioned it on the drill press. Mr. Graves would pull the handle down so the point of the drill was just above the spot marked and ask if that was the right. “Can I get you a drink, cup of tea? Something stronger perhaps?”“Like what?” she sniffled turning to face me.“Erm,” I suddenly knew I had no alcohol in the house at all and could not fathom why I had said that other than I had heard Peter sellers say it in a movie once.“Hot Chocolate?” I ventured.She shook her head, “No, no thank you.”Annie was a nice woman, plain to the point of insignificance, bespectacled with shoulder length lifeless hair and a figure that it seemed in the drab clothes she wore to be catered for by Sacks “R” Us.She was quiet and no trouble as neighbour, up until now. Basically, she was the sort of woman you ignored other than to say good morning to, if you were unfortunate enough to be bringing in you milk bottles at the same time.Therefore, it was odd to be in this seemingly intimate situation for god alone knows what reason.“What can I help you with?” I asked if only to break the protracted and uncomfortable silence.Again, she blushed.“Oh God how did I get.
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