Today the postman brought me a present from an old housemate. Back in the day we shared a slum in North Carlton where pretty much everything in the house was falling apart and required maintainence. The things that didn’t require maintainence were the things that belonged at the tip, or could have been improved with explosives. The bathroom came under the “explosives” category. The oven was an exception, it belonged in a museum. In fact, on a uni excursion one day I saw one exactly the same as mine in a museum. The stove was incapable of boiling a pot of water. The landlord didn’t do anything about the dodgy fuse box until there were flames, the electrician who replaced the fuse box may have used the word “museum” too. We were broke so we possessed, between four of us, a couple of screwdrivers (from my sewing machine) and The Tool. None of us knew what it was called, but it was sturdy enough to bang stuff and you could use it as a shifter as well. Times have changed. We’ve both moved to relatively salubrious accommodation, and we have more tools, but neither of us has had a tool kit you’d call glamorous. Until now.

It’s a William Morris patterned hammer and it has a screwdriver the lives in the handle too. In proper William Morris style it’s beautiful and practical at the same time.

The only problem is convincing the kid that it really is mine. Not his.