My front door is a piece of truly mediocre carpentry. It does technically have two hinges, but they’re both positioned next to each other a few inches from the top of the door, as the carpenter didn’t feel like bending down when he was installing them. The door itself is a good foot shorter than the frame, so there’s a gap between the top of the door and the ceiling. I personally like it that way – it means that, if I ever forget my keys, I can climb over the top, root around in the jeans that I was formerly wearing, climb back out and then unlock the door. If I know that I’m going to be going far away, I can throw the keys back into the house so I know that I won’t lose them.
I’d like to sing the praises of mediocrity (but out of tune). I cherish what was supposed to be a blown-glass owl but, thanks to the poor skills of the glass-blower, resembles an overweight pug having a stroke, the wrinkly face nestling in the drooping folds of its torso, melted and drawn down one side. I delight in sub-par oil paintings, where the likeness is adequate, but distorted, as if viewed through a fug of myopia and acid, eyes too large for the face, three-fingered hands grasping indeterminable blurs. Where rooms have corners and walls but floors melt into shoulders, windows lack glass and views. But my favourite, the absolute pinnacle of the poor, is mediocre magic. Illusionists failing to find the card, while knives fall out of the assistant. A dove wriggles its way down the magicians’ sleeve, and, taking two ten pound notes and a false hand with it.
(A sub-par oil painting I did many moons ago. Not before perspective was invented, so I have no excuse).