Thing 294 Bury a Hatchet

Here's the thing, this blog is personal, and it's a kind of personal journey, and you're all welcome along on the journey, but there's some stuff that's kind of too personal to be shared here. So I'm going to spend half of this blog speaking in vague generalities about a situation that I don't want you knowing too much about, and the other half will be about literally burying a hatchet.

I've a head like a mallet. I'm never wrong. Even when I'm wrong, I'm not wrong. My brother, the Thorny Wire is pretty much the same as me, which made for an interesting childhood. My poor mother aught to be sainted. Me and Thorny Wire have had some spectacular rows. No one literally buried a hatchet, or literally anything else.... just about.

You know how I love the extended metaphors though. This one wasn't even on the list of Things, but it seemed appropriate considering the week that was in it. Every so often, even when I'm not wrong, I'm vaguely aware that there's a chance that I'm wrong. It takes me a while for this thought to form. It starts with a germ of an idea, a vague hint that something is wrong or just slightly amiss. It takes a while for it to develop.
So speaking of my poor beleaguered ma, I'd to raid my parents' house to get a hatchet. Oddly enough, among the junk you can find lying around The Sluggery are footballs of many varieties, guitars aplenty, many different types of hammers, screwdrivers and pliers, four different couches and all of Pony Boy's many many hats... no hatchets. Surprisingly there's two of them in mam and dad's gaff. Neither of them are lumberjacks. It's a little alarming...

So when I've realised I'm wrong, or at least thought of it, there's a few stages to go through. First denial; I'm not wrong. Then righteous indignation; this is definitely not my fault, someone else is to blame. Then acceptance; right, I probably did something wrong here. This may be my issue. And then regret; I'm going to have to apologise... bury the hatchet so to speak.

You see where I'm going with this.

Now I was a little late getting the hatchet, and it was Grey's Anatomy night, so The Thief was occupied, but there wasn't a lot of light left, and what was also missing from The Sluggery? A shovel. So what did I need to do? Yes. I used my hands. Like a dog, if a dog had hands instead of paws. I wonder what the neighbours would have thought if they'd looked out their windows. A man out his back garden at half ten at night, hatchet in hand, digging up the back garden with his free lámh.

So I sent an email. It said lots of stuff. Mostly it said sorry. And I filled the hole with the hatchet in it. Buried. To be forgotten about. Thankfully.