It must be THE week for getting packages in this house, because there’s another today and it’s huge. Very well, it’s not terribly broad, but is intriguingly long and skinny.
Help me open it! What do you suppose is in it? Extra-extra long spaghetti? A build-your-own-giraffe kit? An early-ordered bundle of switches for the human female’s yule stocking? A lawn-sized game of spillikins?
Huh. I… Sigyn, do you know what this is?
It’s metal, a meter or more long (tall?), and has a thinner bit on the end, capped with something blue.
Ooooh! the blue cap comes off, revealing a long steel spike! It’s a weapon! The human female has purchased a WEAPON! I do not know whether to be proud of her or apprehensive for the safety of all surrounding her. This is the finger-slicing, knuckle-grating, knee bruising mortal who once slammed her own hair in the hood of her car. Should she really be given access to something so beautifully sharp?
(Light dawns.) Ah. Now I have it. The human female has been lamenting the amount of trash along the streets and sidewalks in the neighborhood. I believe she has purchased a “trash-picker-stick” to take along on her walks in the mornings. She seems positively gleeful and has dubbed it “Mr. Pointy.”
Again, I don’t know whether to be proud of her or fear for my bodily safety. Oh, well. The likelihood of her following through on her good intentions are vanishingly small, so chances are we are out of harm’s way– and I won’t have to scrape together any craw-sticking words of grudging commendation.
Pffft! “Mr. Pointy,” indeed.