Episode 1:
I go to the screwdriver drawer to get a Phillips Head to screw in a bracket. The drawer is strangely full of slotted screwdrivers, apart from the Phillips Head one that is way too big.
Episode 2:
I return a few days later to the same drawer to get a slotted screwdriver to adjust an old metal picture frame. The draw is full of Phillips Head screwdrivers, apart from the one slotted one with the bent shaft, that is way too small.
This is uncanny. Frustrated to the point of looking for something furry and pliant into which to plunge the screwdriver (slotted or Phillips) - I none the less ponder this strange circumstance - between clenched teeth while accosting the frame with the wrong screwdriver with predictable results.
Indeed, I appear to have cracked the glass of the frame. Not by applying too much pressure with the wrong tool, but in an act of childish frustration as I threw it on the floor after puncturing my left hand with the slotted screwdriver.
Mind you, this goes rather well with the hole in the dining table (or indoor workbench as I am fond of calling it) that I made when I 'accidentally' rammed the phillips head screwdriver in a downwards ' very frustrated toddler' action when the screwdriver failed to make proper contact with the bracket and I skinned my knuckle.
I ended up using a knife to tend to the frame and a large band-aid to tend to my wound. The frame looks fine on the wall. Who needs glass anyway, it just gathers dust and fingermarks. And you don't get any annoying reflections, or glass.
The 'good' knife (the one with the funny twist in the blade point) has been carefully hidden under the old crappy knives in the lower kitchen draw. I reckon I've got three months grace before my partner finds it, and by then I should be able to blame it on visitors or even the cleaners. I twice talk my way out of having a formal dinner with guests (and using the offending cutlery). Instead we opt for a BBQ and I stand out in the rain as my beer fills up with water.
It's a fair swap.
A pollymarp of sarly pomes.
A garmly death.
A thrennyfore of queldenbalm,
a macronosh of thrace,
Quendelling in my pennyfarce
a gonosh on my face!
Agrupp! Agrupp! I hear you carg
A spoggin by your side
happy-smarking at your goll
Comelumming for a ride.
Peedy eyes and slumly nose
nuspustling for a gorde
plegni mouth and crandly teeth
Freth-netherly and taud.
With turpen maze and spaggly breath
I marmalize my speg
It's grippen teeth and voggli wale
A feill and garmley death.
Feiggled narg and dappen fed
Afrontelled and agorp
Fargling deim and parsedeuce
Be-twith! The blarg is dead!
Long live the blarg.