the carpenter's unlevel table (557 words)

measure it again. no, its all right. the spirit level doesn't agree.

this had never happened to him before. He always took such pride in his work, it was the reason he earned so little. the rest of them could make 6 maybe 7 tables a day, but not him. two maybe, but that was a rarity. So what if his boss sold them at the same price as all the others being churned out. He thought of them as having their own life's; if he could make them to last, they would. Like the wrinkles of the face, he though of every knock, every chip, every coffee ring as character in his table's lives. Pride came into someone else's somewhat inheritance of his work.

But this table bothered him. He would not let it go to the showroom in this state. Someone may buy it, but it wasn't of a quality worth keeping. Sooner or later it would end up outside, it's wood blistering in the rain. He put the table to one side, and swept the floor, collecting ever last piece of saw dust. Spirit level on the floor, he started to check ever corner of this work space. It was all level; he knew it was, he'd checked it many times before. But what if his level itself was wrong? His colleagues each had a spirit level, it was standard kit, but they never used them. Maybe his had dented ever so slightly. No one even flinches a he help himself to their spirit levels, they were always too busy filling their quoters to care. He lay two spirits of the floor; level. He lay his on top; level. He lay another on top of that; level. Maybe it was his tape measure. He rested his against the back wall of the workshop, one of this colleagues' either side, and pulled them out as far as they could stretched. Pain stackingly he check each making on his measure against the other. No luck there. He was reassured, at least his tools had let a substandard table leave his work station before.

He looked at the table again. The degree of inaccuracy would have been unnoticeable to any customer, but still it was there. He started slowly filling off microscopically thin layers from the opposite leg. Still it was there. The wood must have bowed in the middle of the table top. He carved himself a new one. Still the incline was there. He carved four new legs. Still the incline was there. He could not work out what was going wrong? He put it to one side, started working on a new project. Before long he was back, staring down his table from every angle imaginable.

Long after everyone had left for the day, he remained. In the peace and quite he could take his time, perfecting his table. With more care and effort than ever before he smoothed down every surface until, eventually, it was perfect. He'll tidy up this mess tomorrow; he turned of his work light and went home to enjoy his well earned rest.

When he returned the next morning, he placed his spirit level on the table with pride. But it was off! Enraged with frustration, he didn't hear the giggles of his colleges enjoying their practical joke rolling into a second day.