Deep Sorriness Atonement Song

I am in what is colloquially known as Deep Domestic Wifey Shit.

Yesterday I tackled a DIY project. I had bought a rough-as-shit-but-looked-ok-in-the-photo dresser off Ebay, and decided that the only way forward with it – aside from firewood – was to paint it.

I borrowed Hubby’s beloved Leatherman to tackle some piddling little screws on the cupboard doors, and then for some reason known only to God, I placed said Leatherman on the nearby bonnet of my car when I had finished. It sat there quite happily, alongside the kitchen knife I had used to open the tin of paint – the correct designated tool for this type of job.

It sat there overnight, and all the next morning. It sat there when I leaped blithely into the driver’s seat and tooled off down the steep drive, although at that point the kitchen knife waved it a fond farewell. It sat there for nearly half a mile along the road, right up until the point where I had a crisis of confidence about the location of Harry’s stroller, and pulled quickly onto the roadside. As I braked, a sharp thump from underneath the car did make me pause for thought – I even had a glance round my tyres after I’d been to check in the back for the stroller.

But not until Hubby politely enquired où est? this afternoon did I start to have a nagging suspicion about what I might have done. I ‘fessed up the possibility, uneasily. He does love that Leatherman. We trailed outside, where the kitchen knife lying on the edge of the drive was a gleaming finger of accusation. I watched as he trudged all the way down the hill, peering hopefully into the long grass. Oh, it was sad. Only then did I remember the thump, and he drove grumpily off down the road on a search and retrieve.

Well, he found it.


Only two of the blades have snapped off completely.  I think it’s still operational, myself.

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