I was lying in bed last night, slightly geared up from the novel I’m reading, unable to immediately sink as I usually do. I started thinking about Lego men. I’m not sure why. I began thinking, at length, about a Lego man’s smooth, flat little torso. About pinching his head off and how it would always slide snugly back onto his neck no matter how many times you did it. About the holes in the back of his legs and his arrested little feet. His claw hands that required your nails to remove them had you ever a reason to remove them. About how my favourites in our collection were not the knights, or the firemen, but rather the most generic characters. The Lego man who wore a red jumper and had nothing but the barest smile, half worn off from a thousand thumbprints. I got a little sad that I have no Lego men up here in Dublin. It seemed so long since I’d seen any. I just wanted to hold one between thumb and forefinger. After a while it felt strange to be thinking about them so fondly, and for so long. I had to make a conscious effort to switch to boobs.
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