Once upon a time, a very old hammer’s handle broke – the wood splintered and was placed in a pile of old wood (neatly of course) to increase the height of the pile to a smidge over two foot.
The son of the aforementioned hammer’s owner, upon witnessing the event, asked for the quazillionth time, ‘Why don’t you just throw it in the bin?” and for the quazillionth time, the boy’s father remained silent and continued on with his next task – to store the hammer head somewhere. This time, and even though for the quazillion-and-first time, a certain question came time to mind, like his father, the boy remained silent.
A few weeks later Christmas arrived, and with Pat Cash having won Wimbledon earlier in the year, coupled with a love of every sport, the young kid received a tennis raquet. Nothing special, but his very first, and he was rapt – especially as it meant that he was soon to experience the absolute wonderment of opening a fresh pack of tennis balls. It wasn’t that the metal lid came off like a tin of tuna, but the popping sound it made was the precursor to that indescribable, yet amazingly alluring smell.
Years passed, and the nylon strings on the raquet would eventually succomb to the strain of excessive use, and the tennis racquet had seen it’s last day. Last days that is as an object for sport, for his father took it from him and like the hammer head, proceeded to store it away.
Saddened, yet thankful for all the years of fun the racquet had provided, the boy went inside to have repeated glasses of delicious (and over concentrated) Koola cordial. It was an hour from dinner time, and when that hour passed he was asked to go call his father inside.
As he walked outside, his saw his father walking towards him with a weird object in his hand – not by shape mind you, but the colours of it weren’t making sense. The silhouette was clearly that of a hammer, yet the handle was white with a fading brand name on it, and where his father held it, there was a brown tinge underneath. When he finally understood, his laughter began at the same his father asked, “You like-a watta did witta da racquet?”
And so for the first time in mankind’s history, a hammer existed with a handle that once belonged to a tennis racquet – complete with it’s own faux-leather grip for added surety of use.
Here is where I end this post. I know it speaks of no product and details no instruction. It’s sole purpose is to act as inspiration for the next time there is something that requires a solution around the home.