Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Saturday, 20 December 2014
The blunt truth
It seems I am, at the moment, destined to buy knives for The Boy as Christmas presents, only to keep them myself. I shouldn't feel too guilty about this though, because not giving them to him as originally planned could - in a very direct way - avert a horrible accident or murder of the sort that often happens at this time of year. That's what I tell myself anyway.
I have a friend who used to give his two very young sons extremely sharp knives as presents to play with and use, on the basis that 'a blunt knife is more dangerous than a sharp one'. Well, in some circumstances yes, but it all depends what you want to do with it.
I bought this latest one in Lidl yesterday and it cost £6.99 as opposed to the £80 or so it would have cost in our kitchen shop. I love the way they have patinated the blade to a gun-metal grey, the same way as they used to with WW2 Commando daggers - so your victim stands less chance of seeing you creep up on them in the dark.
It is made - somehow - using ceramic as the core material, and once you have attained a razor-edge on ceramic, it is more or less there for good - unless you try to cut through other forms of ceramic. The instruction leaflet which came with it states that it should never need sharpening, but if it ever does, it should be taken to a professional who should use wet diamond on it, very carefully.
One of the best things about it is that it comes with a hard, plastic sheath, which means I can put it away in the drawer and not have to worry about losing a couple of fingers when I am rummaging around looking for it when pissed.
Last night, H.I. and me used the French Laguinole knives for the first time, and I can now say what I wanted to say to Cro the other day, but had no proof to back me up. They rest on the side of the plate very nicely, without flipping up due to the curve on the handles - you just have to put more of the flat part of the blade against the edge of the plate, DERR. I got the impression that Cro had - once, in the distant past - suffered the humiliating experience of having his knife flip through 90 degrees at a dinner party he was hosting for someone he wanted to impress, then threw the whole set away in the bin in anger before he even bothered to wash them up.
"What's that?" H.I. asked me when she saw the new knife sitting on the table still framed in the cellophane window of the box.
"What does it look like?" was my irritating response.
When she asked why I had bought it, I said that it was for The Boy, and added that I now wished I had bought two, because it was such a bargain that I wanted one for myself. She 'reminded' me that The Boy's mother had already bought him a whole set of kitchen knives - all stuck into a wooden block for safety's sake as they are stored on a work surface near the sink or whatever.
'Good' I thought, and unwrapped it, gloated over it for a bit, then sheathed it safely and put it into the draw with its new, dull friends.
A little later, we were listening to a harrowing report about the state of the inside of the military school in Pakistan where the 130+ children were murdered by the unspeakably inhuman Taliban killers, and H.I. said in a low voice, "The bastards."