John loves to order things he's read up about. He reads a lot of papers and periodicals, and when he reads about a must-have, he, well, must have it. He has various things he doesn't use, like a horrible hatchet thing he bought years ago to break up chicken wings to make stock. He has never, to my knowledge, made stock. He sent away for sausages - expensive sausages - which were nice, but no better than our local ones. And a very expensive thing which is supposed to connect our computers and back things up, but which doestn't work.
His latest purchase is a kitchen knife. This is used, he tells me. by the best chefs. Indispensible. This knife is very large, and very, very sharp. And (and this is the point of this post) every time I use it (yes. I am allowed to. "I see you've used The Knife" he says smugly, each time he notices), I cut myself. I just have to touch the damn thing, and I bleed.
It happened again this morning. In a rare domestic moment, I decided to make soup for lunch (I'm in waiting-for-Agent's reply mode, so need to keep myself occupied). And I used the knife. And I cut myself. Twice. And we're out of the right kind of plasters, so I'm bleeding all over the place, and into the soup. This thing should come with a health warning and a large first aid kit. But I shall continue to use it. Because it's very, very sharp.