If there was greater meaning in an action than the act itself, he didn’t pursue it. He’d rather work away in a philosophical vacuum than get deep about scrubbing a cookie sheet or balancing the cheque book; the rabbit could blaze a trail of intellect before leaping into its hole but he wouldn’t be follow him in. Better a third set of fingers extending outwards from the head than a busy mind getting busier for no good reason. Assessment, evaluation, comparison, clarification, analogy – these exercises were poison in the veins and he wanted none of them. He preferred to go numb and just do what had to be done. “You’re in the zone, I can tell,” his wife would say smiling which had the effect of yanking him completely out but he kept any frustration to himself. He knew what his wife was like. She hated dead air and stated the obvious to pump some blood in, to get the gases circulating, which to him was like filling a shopping basket when your cupboards are full but that was marriage for you.