He paused. There was something about the way the crease folded that reminded him…now what was it?
… and then it all came flooding back. His doctoral thesis on optimal protein folding. How after three years of study he had had to admit defeat in trying to find a universal enzyme that could take instruction from injected RNA. Yet this was it! Yes! If the outer sulphite chain just folded back – right back, doing a quarter turn around and then running parallel in almost a mirror image to the main sequence then… well, the possibilities were endless. Any RNA chain could be processed straight through into an optimally folded protein sequence. Tailored enzymes could repair nucleotides damaged by... well, anything. Even old age could be curable with the right combination of instructions. And of course, it was the breakthrough cancer researchers had been seeking since the 1980s!
Excitedly, he began to imagine how he could put these insights out there – a post on the Genzyme blog, for instance, to establish priority as the originator of the idea, then a short paper in Enzyme Research. Of course, he'd need some lab time to demonstrate the technique, but he was sure the biotech labs would be queuing up to -
Then he paused. This wasn’t getting the ironing done, and She’d said that it all had to be done before Kurt arrived, so there would be time to do all of his laundry too. And his socks and underpants had to be carefully hand-washed.
Plus, he admittedly mournfully to himself, the last time he had tried mentioning anything about his doctoral studies, he’d been soundly paddled for being ‘too clever for his own good’. She didn't approve of his having ideas above his station. And his station was so low, he'd yet to encounter an idea that was not.
Perhaps it was better just to forget about it. Anyway, it had been almost eight years since he’d ben allowed to look at a book, or watch TV or access the Internet. Probably cancer had been cured by now. It wasn't the sort of thing She'd have mentioned to him, after all. They didn't have conversations about that sort of thing.
It was all a matter of priorities, he told himself. And with his bottom still extremely sore from the consequences of that spilt milk yesterday, he knew where his priorities lay.
Switching the iron to ‘steam’ he firmly smoothed away the complex twisting shape that had appeared by chance before him, leaving just a neat, straight crease. Not too sharp.
Just the way She liked it.
