Last night, I wanted to fix a piece of costume jewellery of mine- it was a lovely beaded necklace, but the clasp had come off and I couldn’t wear it anymore. All it needed was a good pull with a pair of pliers, a nifty squeeze, a hook and voila, it’d be as good as new. So I trotted down to the study room where I knew Hubby kept his toolbox.
Suffice to say, it was a total mess in there. The tool box, I mean. Rusted nails, odd-sized screws, sad-looking screwdrivers, a hammer which had turned black from discolouration, some wires, a HDMI cable…yes, we don’t do much handiwork around my house. And for the life of me, I could not find that darned pair of pliers I knew was in there. So I searched high and low, thrust the toolbox upside down and shook it madly. I emptied it entirely, sifted through the contents carefully. I know my eyes didn’t deceive me, I remembered seeing the pliers in there not too long ago.
All to no avail. No pliers.
I sighed, sat in the living room with the clasp and the necklace pooled on my lap. Gritted my teeth and bit hard on the hook. A metallic taste filled my mouth, and I could distinctly hear a sickening crack sound. Great! Hooked bits of necklace in, fixed! But I had a slightly chipped tooth.
Oh well. At least it gives me character.