Aug 19, 2019: Needle

I decided, today, to wash the rucksack I use to take things to work. I don’t really need to take things to work, but on the off-chance there’s a gap between games, it’s good to have my bag because it contains things to pass the time.

There’s my book that I’m designing puzzles in. There’s the book I record the escape room stats in so that I can bore several people on Facebook every month. And there’s a book or my Switch to pass the time betwixt games. There’s probably chargers or wires as well because I am tech savvy and would only leave those at home if I was an idiot (like I did on Saturday).

But over the weeks and months the rucksack becomes a home to detritus. Crumbs from things that have been transported in there – fresh croissants if I’m feeling swanky, for example, have a habit of shedding a good deal of their pastry being through the sides of the container they come in. But also, a carton of strawberry milk had a hitherto unknown compromised structural integrity which was found much later. And the inside of my bag looked like a milk slug had been at it.

Also, milk. Mmmm, that’s going to start to hum soon. And not in the musical sense.

So I washed the bag. Emptied it and threw it in the washer – just wipe it with a cloth and get on with it be damned!

My favourite part of that process, though, was as I was ensuring the compartments were empty. Because I found that my bag had a bit of a Wolverine thing going on.

About six months or so ago, I took needles and thread to work with me to stitch up the hole in a pillow. It had been bugging me. No-one else was doing anything. So I took charge and did it. I popped our collection of needles into my bag (they’re in a sort of plastic sheet holster thing) and some thread. I sewed and brought everything home.

And took it all out of the bag.

Or so I thought.

My bag has been a weapon ever since and I have not known. there were a couple of needles sticking out of the front of my bag – pointy end first – having somehow got loose from their holster and burying themselves into the fabric of my bag.

I could, had I been less careful or more clumsy, ripped myself to ribbons on a daily basis. In fact, this might explain the times when I’ve had a scratch by no really idea where it came from.

Had I had cause to rummage around in the base of my bag for anything my hand would have returned bleeding, as though I had been savaged by a weasel or something similarly sinister.

I’d basically weaponised my backpack. I think I have made it safe now. Prior to washing it.

If not there are two outcomes:

  1. I now have a clean, weaponised backpack.
  2. I have weaponised the washing machine.

Both of those scare me.