Saturday, September 06, 2008
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy
Tailors really help me out, as it is hard to find a suit that fits a hedgehog well; for some reason we can't seem to rid ourselves of soldiers; and, judging by that guy at the other end of the bar who keeps looking over his newspaper at me, spies abound. But where are the tinkers?
When I was a child, we still had milk delivered to us. That did not last too long. But for quite a while after that one could still hear the bells of the tinker's truck rumbling up the street. These itinerant tinsmiths would drive around, offering to repair any little metal thing (mostly kitchenware) that one might need repairing. Mostly they would sharpen your knives for you. I remember watching them work in the back of their trucks on the sharpening wheel, in rapt attention as the sparks flew. The sound of the tinker's bell was almost as attractive to me as the ring of the ice cream truck. Now a "tinkerbell" is just some crap that Disney sells to little girls, and the ice cream truck plays some recorded music that drives me out of my tiny little insectivore mind (especially the one that bleats "hello, hello" in between its monotonous refrains.)
Now my kitchen is full of crappy cutlery that is best disposed of, except for a couple of nice knives that I occasionally scrape on an oiled stone, but can never quite get back to that beautiful blade that can really cut it.
Where have all the tinkers gone?
When I was a child, we still had milk delivered to us. That did not last too long. But for quite a while after that one could still hear the bells of the tinker's truck rumbling up the street. These itinerant tinsmiths would drive around, offering to repair any little metal thing (mostly kitchenware) that one might need repairing. Mostly they would sharpen your knives for you. I remember watching them work in the back of their trucks on the sharpening wheel, in rapt attention as the sparks flew. The sound of the tinker's bell was almost as attractive to me as the ring of the ice cream truck. Now a "tinkerbell" is just some crap that Disney sells to little girls, and the ice cream truck plays some recorded music that drives me out of my tiny little insectivore mind (especially the one that bleats "hello, hello" in between its monotonous refrains.)
Now my kitchen is full of crappy cutlery that is best disposed of, except for a couple of nice knives that I occasionally scrape on an oiled stone, but can never quite get back to that beautiful blade that can really cut it.
Where have all the tinkers gone?
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