I have just been reunited with my Swiss army knife after it decided to stay on in Bulgaria after our Christmas break. Prior to this adventure, it had been temporarily confiscated at a concert in Hyde Park and had to listen to PULP in the darkness of a small locker.
We have shared many skirmishes over the years with wine bottles and stubborn labels on new clothing. When it first went missing, I imagined that it wanted more excitement than I could offer. It had cut loose to follow its dreams, but in my mind it had fallen on hard times. It used to hang around stables in the hope that the tool for removing stones from hooves could be put to good use, but sadly was never called upon. It had a short spell in a furniture assembly establishment where the screwdrivers were much in demand. From there, it drifted from bar to bar doing casual work and on one occasion the tweezers were used to extract a splinter from a customer’s finger. The toothpick remained forever sheathed, apart from rare moments when it was taken out just to check again what it was. The work dried up, and I imagined it ended its days sitting in the dark corner of a bar, making a pint last a long time, and boring the locals with tales of its days hanging out with the young blades.
Sometimes I think my Swiss army knife has a more adventurous life than do I. That can be so cutting.