When I found the curved saw lying in the front garden among the ivy and the brambles, I knew immediately that it had been there for days: the blade was rusty and the laminated ply handle, once so immaculate had split along the glued edges in several places. It was a sorry sight.

Although I knew I must be the culprit, I had to rack my brains to try and remember why I, normally so careful, had failed to put the saw away. It takes me several days to reconstruct the memory.

I picture my brain like a busy junction, a sort of Piccadilly Circus with bright lights, buses, cars, taxis and streams of people rushing here, there and everywhere. In the past I could take a central position and keep an eye on all the comings and goings. But now I find some things just slip past me and it is unsettling.

Still, the little saw has been rescued: the blade cleaned up, the tooth form is as good and sharp as always and the handle is still pleasing to hold.

Notes:

“So, what have I missed out? Did the King of Denmark once use this pruning saw?” I tease my husband, the tool expert.

He informs me that it is probably a Swedish design related to, but predating flat pack furniture which amuses me.