When I was a kid I had water on the knees. The end result was by year seven I couldn't do sport. Not that I cared, I hated it, but I maintained a none too healthy eating pattern and fattened up like some sort of lovingly pampered cannibal snack pack.At the all boys private school I was then ensconced at I was the only person allowed to wear sneakers outside of the sporting ground (I know, ironic). I copped a lot of shit for this. Probably didn't help that I had a smart mouth but still being bullied because of medically assigned footwear is still pretty fucked.Teachers back in the 80's were yet to be aware of self esteem as a basic human Maslow fucking requirement in life and as such likewise gave me shit.Being year seven there were no optional classes. We all did the same. Which included 'Industrial Design'. Which is a fancy way of saying woodwork. Because I wore sneakers I wasn't allowed to do woodwork. Because I could drop something on my foot. Apparently only those with robust leather school shoes had the necessary foot protection to perform useless busy work and cock around with drills et al.I was set to work cleaning gunk off the sinks each lesson instead. I still can't believe I didn't move to the cheaper far better state system for one more year.Anyway this is a roundabout way of saying I don't have many manual skills. Tools are a mystery to me. But I am aware of sanding and what it sounds like since my Dad spent a lot of time shed bound doing this sort of thing. Today at work someone in the toilets was sanding their arse. Not that I saw it. It's just what it sounded like. Skrit-skrit-skrit-skrit (pause) skrit-skrit-skrit-skrit. Really smoothing that perinial area back by the sounds of things.Just how bad were their shits that they had to sand back their crack?