Ah, I see my owner has awoken. He's an interesting chap, nothing out of the ordinary and he likes to keep me with him. He seems to consider me useful for all sorts of things, but then I am his pen knife. I groan or two later and he's in the bathroom and already my first job of the day; the soap's finished and he'll need to open a new pack. A quick slice and a brand new bar sits by the sink. I do worry about him using a knife this early in the morning, but so far he's not injured himself.
He's returned, but he's picked me up again, I wonder what the next job is. He's sitting down. No, please, no not the toe nail, please not the toe nails! Ugh. At least my scissors are sharp, so this is a quick job. Shudder, now he's rooting around trying to get the gunk out. Has he no thoughts for my feelings? Now I want that soap. Still at least it's over, and hopefully the worst task of the day.
With that unpleasantness out of the way we head downstairs and I'm presented with a more civilised job: opening the morning post. There doesn't seem to be anything interesting, just junk mail and bills. Both go in the bin. I'm sure that's not right, but none of the bills were red, so I suppose they can wait, and he seems to have a similar opinion.
At work, sometime later, and there's some more letter opening and even a little light staple pulling to be done. I do wish he wouldn't do that with my blade, my tip's getting all bent out of shape, but no real harm done. He spends most of the rest of the morning answering emails and taking phone calls, both of which I'm not really involved in, and I spend the time daydreaming of a place where I'm well taken care of and get to slice, snip and pull all day. Ah well, I suppose one must just keep ones blade to the grindstone and work for these things, paradise doesn't come without effort. I wonder if there's a special paradise for knives. Will I go there when my blade finally breaks? I do hope he'll get over my quickly when that happens and finds himself a new knife, I don't know what he'd do without one. He can't really manage on his own you know. Still hopefully that's a way off yet, and there are other less maudlin think to think of in the mean time; like when will he oil me next? I'm going to have to tighten up a bit if I want him to get the hint, but that goes against my inclination to be a good tool. Oh the dilemma, whether to wait until my hinges seize up before demanding oil, or to persuade him a bit of preventative maintenance would be a good thing. I shall ponder upon this matter some more.
Whilst I'm thinking, I notice he's gone to get some lunch, forgetting me on his desk. I see other eyeing me, but no-one is in need of a knife, or scissors, or a corkscrew, a saw, a screwdriver, a can opener or any of the other functions I could gladly perform. Such is the life of a tool, in constant use one moment, left on the desk the next. Still, it's not a bad life all in all, not terribly strenuous really.
He's returned, and the look on his face says that the sandwich manufacturers have done it again. Why they make the packaging so difficult to open no-one seems to know. I can only assume it's some sort of ploy to make you work up an appetite opening it so that you really appreciate the contents. A moment's work with me and the pack lies open. That'll teach him not to leave me behind in future. He could be outside eating if he'd only had me with him. Hang on, he's headed straight back out, and forgotten me again. He hasn't even cleaned me and I've got mayonnaise on my blade. Well, I assume it's supposed to be mayonnaise. It bears more of a resemblance to glue really. Why does he do this to himself, he could buy better sandwiches, and why does he do this to me? It's congealing.
He's come back, and I assume he's eaten that thing rather than thrown it to the birds, he's not that cruel. He's noticed my plight and used a napkin to wipe me down. That feels good. It's these little pleasures I look forward to most in life.
The afternoon passes much life the morning. There's little for me to do in an office, but the jobs there are to do I do well. He's received a package. It's not very big, but the sender seems to have used several miles of tape on it. It must be another Ebay acquisition. For some reason all the sellers seem to use more tape than is really necessary. It seems like another job for me, but he's trying to tear it open. That's not going to work. Has he forgotten about me again? Finally he gives up and a brief snip later the package is open. It's a penknife pouch! For me! He shouldn't have. In I go. It's a perfect fit, and I can even see out under the flap. He really is a nice guy, even though I complain about him.
Back at home, in the evening, and I'm still feeling excited about my new outfit. He's rushing around tidying like there's someone important turning up. That'd be his lady friend then. He's got everything in order, and the table's laid. I hope he doesn't forget to let the wine breath. Ah there it is, but he's using a 'real' corkscrew to open it. It's cheap job from the local supermarket. It looks the part but the screw's blunt. He's not put it in far enough and he's going to break the cork. Told you so. Maybe now he'll remember I've got a decent screw and I can get that last bit of cork out without dropping it into the bottle. Come on, I can get you out of this pickle. Here we go. Gently does it, and pull. It's always satisfying doing a difficult job well, and not a moment too soon it seems. There's somebody at the door; it's her.
She's put her hand bag on the side next to me, a I can hear a quiet voice inside it. A female voice. Didn't you know knives can talk to each other? This evening could be a lot more interesting that I'd expected it to be, now if you'll excuse me I have to make a good impression.
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