Me versus hatchets

Bury the hatchet

Before I start I need to point out that I'm doing this for research purposes and not because I've done anything bad with a hatchet that needs covering up. No sir.

My first problem was what exactly is a hatchet? Is it another name for an axe or something different altogether? I put 'hatchet' in the search box of a well-known DIY website and got no results. 'Did you mean rachet, thatcher, sachet?" No I didn't.

Turns out that a hatchet is a type of axe - a small, light one designed for use in one hand specifically while camping or travelling.

With that established I put on my disguise and went to a not-too-local hardware store and bought a hatchet with cash.

Burying it was the easy part. We only have a small garden so it was easy to lift a couple of patio slabs, dig down a bit, place the hatchet in the hole, cover it up and put the slabs back.

And here's where the problem with this starts. It seems a pretty silly place to leave a hatchet. You've got to go through all that rigmarole again to get the hatchet back if you need to do some more hatcheting.

If you've left it there a long time then there's a danger that the handle will rot or the blade rust. All in all rather a daft idea unless you're in the criminal fraternity.

Conclusion One: Buying a hatchet just to bury it is a waste of money

Conclusion Two: If you think you might need to use the hatchet again don't bury it. Keep it in a toolbox or somewhere handy like that.

Conclusion Three: If you are of the criminal fraternity then bury your hatchet further away from your house. The garden is the first place the police will look.

Me versus the Extra Mile

Go the extra mile

As I was driving into work today I decided to go the extra mile.

I got to where I would usually turn into work, checked the mile-ometer and carried on. One more mile took me into a cul-de sac on a housing estate.

After sitting there not doing much apart from listening to the radio for an hour I got a call on my mobile from my boss: “Is everything ok?” she said, “are you coming in today?”

I explained that I’d gone the extra mile and was in a housing estate and it was a bit rubbish because my desk and pc were nowhere to be seen. As this is a family blog I won’t repeat what she said but I was encouraged to give up on the extra mile and go into the office instead.

I tried again with the extra mile business on the way home. It’s quite inconvenient leaving your car that far from your house and walking back. Mrs MvC was worried too wondering why I was so late and where the car was.

I explained that I'd gone the extra mile and could she give me a lift to get the car back as I'd need it in the morning. I ended up walking.

Conclusion: Probably best to do the exact number of miles necessary.

Me versus barking and trees

You're barking up the wrong tree

Interesting one this - who decides which is the right tree? Or maybe you get a feeling for the rightfulness of the tree when you start barking at it? I needed to find out.

There are quite a lot of trees round where I work so as it was nice out at lunchtime I thought I'd go out and bark at a few. If you'd like to imagine what sort of bark it's more of a German Short-Haired Pointer than Yorkshire Terrier. Deeper rather than yappier.

Anyway, I found a tree, stood three feet or so away and barked. Nothing. I stood closer and barked, further away and barked. At no time did I feel that this was either the right or wrong tree. 

A tree of some sort

I went to a different tree and did the same. And another. Still no sense of rightness or wrongness. Perhaps I was barking at the wrong brand of tree so I went to find a different one. I'm not very good with trees but I know a silver birch when I see one. I barked at that and I barked at an apple tree but there wasn't any difference in how I felt. Nor did anyone tell me that I was right or wrong

After about 20 minutes and many trees I was getting hoarse and rapidly coming to the conclusion that there's no way you can tell which is the right tree or wrong tree to bark at so I wasn't too upset that the security guards came and moved me away from the trees.

Conclusion One: I don't care what you say, you can't tell which is the wrong (or right) tree.

Conclusion Two: Unless this is philosophical and no tree is the right tree and we are destined to search for a tree and never find it.

Conclusion Three: Perhaps dogs have some sort of right or wrong tree sixth sense. I shall investigate this dog notion further...

Me versus noses and faces

Cut off your nose to spite your face

Regular readers will be aware that I quite literally tackle these cliches for the benefit of mankind's knowledge but after the sword incident I am not going to cut my own nose off. 

But I won't let that stop me investigating this phrase for you dear reader(s), oh no. Let me introduce you to Tycho Brahe (1546-1601). Brahe, if you can't be bothered to click the Wikipedia link, was a 16th century Danish nobleman, astronomer and alchemist. 

'What's that got to with a nose?' I hear you cry, well I'll tell you. Brahe had it cut off in a duel in 1566.

Did he let this get him down? No. He had metal prosthetic ones made for him. They may have been silver, gold or copper (or brass) but let's retrace those steps a minute. He had a metal nose. Probably stuck on with glue. That would have broken the ice at parties. It's thought that he might have worn different noses for different occasions. How cool is that? 

Brahe went on to discover a supernova, map the heavens better than anyone before him, is awarded The Order of the Elephant, had eight children, became the imperial astronomer to the Holy Roman Emperor, owned possibly 1% of the entire wealth of Denmark and had an elk that died after falling downstairs when drunk.

Doesn't sound like his face was spited at all by the whole nose cutting-off incident.

Conclusion One: Look after your nose. You only get one - you don't want to lose it.

Conclusion Two: But if you are an in unfortunate nose off situation you might want to consider a metal one.

Conclusion Three: Try to keep your elk on the ground floor if you think it's had one too many.

Me versus pens and swords

The pen is mightier than the sword

This was a fairly simple one.

I stabbed myself in the back of the hand with a pen. It hurt a little bit.

I stabbed myself in the back of the hand with a sword. And now I'm typing this one-handed from hospital.

Conclusion: Pens are for writing, swords are for cutting, thrusting, slicing and stabbing. Don't confuse them.

Me versus Cocked Hats

Knock it into a cocked hat

My first thought before I tackled this one was 'what the heck is a cocked hat?' I turned to my old friend Wikipedia which informed that it's another name for a bicorne or, if you can't be bothered to click the link, is also known as 'that hat Napoleon used to wear'.

Rather than waste my money buying one I took a trip to the nearest fancy dress emporium and hired one. I realised afterwards that this limited me on what I could knock into it. If I wanted my deposit back then I certainly couldn't knock soup in it or mud or used tissues from my current bout of Australian Killer Flu.

The actual Napoleon in an actual hat

I discovered another problem when I got the hat home. It won't stand up on it's own. The crown of the hat is shaped so that the hat will, more often than not, topple over. I was going to have to lean the hat up against something before I could knock something in it.

Eventually I wedged it up against the desk and knocked a screwed up piece of paper in. It was disappointingly unsatisfying. I might as well have knocked something into a bin.

Conclusion One: If you want to knock something into a hat, use a more versatile one that you can place where you have things you might need knocking in. A boater perhaps.

Conclusion Two: Or buy a bin.

Me versus Messengers

Don't shoot the messenger

This is a phrase I hear a lot. 'Don't shoot the messenger. Don't shoot the messenger.' The more I heard it, the more determined I became to shoot a messenger.

As I live in a three-storey house (get me!) with a good view over a car park (alright, don't get me) it was going to be easy to get a clear shot at a postie (my chosen messenger). I borrowed an air-rifle from someone who would prefer to remain nameless and had a bit of practice in the old 'shooting at cans on a fence' style.

When I felt I was ready for the task I had a leisurely breakfast (the postie never arrives that early any more - I remember the days when the post would be on your doormat when you got up) and headed up to the top floor of the house. I opened the window slightly and poked the end of the gun barrel through the gap.

Not the actual trigger or finger

I didn't have long to wait. A postie was heading across the car park towards the post box to my right. I took aim and squeezed the trigger. And missed by quite a distance but the pellet did skip off the tarmac into a parked car and made a satisfying ricochet noise like it does on the telly.

The other effect it had was to make people stop and look at where the noise came from. While postie was stood pondering the ricochet I took another shot, this time grazing his left shoulder. His hand moved to where he'd been hit and he span round to look in my direction.

This next shot had to count. Crack! The pellet thudded into the postie's thigh making him yelp and hop at the impact. 'Yes! That'll teach you for wearing shorts no matter that it's really cold out,' I thought to myself.

My satisfaction was short-lived. I'd been spotted. Maybe the barrel of the gun glinting in the sunlight had caught their eye like it does in films. I heard someone shout: "He's up there in the book depository."

I wasn't going to hang around. I fled out of the back of the house and went to the cinema to hide. The police came in after me though. I shot one but was then apprehended. It turned out that my case never got to trial as I was gunned down two days later by Jack Ruby.

Conclusion One: I may have confused the latter part of my story with somebody else's.

Conclusion Two: Don't shoot the messenger. You could get into all sorts of trouble with the police and/or get shot by Jack Ruby.

Conclusion Three: Seriously. Don't shoot the messenger. You won't get any post for weeks.

Next time: I say boo to a goose.