Arkwright's Tin

Do you do anything that you know, in your heart, is absolutely futile?

I don't mean such things as reading this blog, although I accept that there's a good case to be made for it.  No, I'm talking about doing something habitually which you know, full well, is absolutely pointless.  I'll give you a 'for instance':

In my wardrobe, underneath where my shirts and tops hang, there is a shelf on which has accumulated a variety of objects that I can't find a home for anywhere else.  This includes two watches, a portable Sat-Nav of considerable age, a variety of mobile phone chargers (most long since redundant) some cuff-links in cases and various other odds and ends, including a small pouch which did contain cuff-links at one time but which is empty now. 

There is a purpose to this rather tedious insight into my clothing storage arrangements.  Just about every time I get a shirt or top out of the wardrobe to wear, you can guarantee that it will sweep the small pouch, referred to above, from the shelf and onto the floor.  Each time, without fail, I bend down and retrieve this pouch and return it to its rightful position, even though I know full well that it has no purpose and will, in all probability, never have a purpose again.  I call this fixation a nasty case of 'Arkwright's Tin'.

You may recall the classic Ronnie Barker series 'Open All Hours' in which he played the misanthropic shopkeeper, Arkwright?  A wonderful piece of 'business' in the programme was the vicious action of the cash register, which intimidated Granville, his assistant.  The particular bit of genius associated with this was that, every time the cash register sprang open, a tin on top of the register invariably fell down, was adroitly caught by Arkwright and was reverently placed back on top of the register, despite the tin apparently being empty and having no purpose whatsoever.

There are other examples.  I've mentioned before about a saw that we inherited from a favourite aunt.  When it came to us, it was still contained in the cardboard sleeve in which it was, presumably, purchased.  Over the years, this cardboard sleeve became more and more dilapidated by wear and tear, until it evolved into no more than a folded piece of cardboard, which only partly covered the saw, but we still diligently replaced it each time we used the saw.  Only recently has it deteriorated to such an extent that we've finally been forced to admit defeat and put it in the recycling bin (the cover, not the saw).

I've also mentioned before about my mum's vacuum cleaner.  Purchased by my dad, at considerable expense from a very effective door-to-door salesman, it weighed a ton and my mum hated it from Day 1.  It came with a wide range of tools that could, allegedly, achieve a whole range of unlikely tasks, including washing the car.  I don't think we ever used more than a couple of these, and then only for the most mundane of purposes.  Nevertheless, the vacuum cleaner came, when new, in a box with all of these tools arranged around it in various cardboard tubes.  We kept the cleaner and tools in their original box and it lived under the stairs. 

Getting it out of the box was a tricky operation, given the lack of ceiling height, caused by the slope of the stairs above, and the considerable weight of the cleaner.  Every time that you finally succeeded in extricating the cleaner from its lair, the tools arranged around it, now deprived of its support, would fall down into the box, so that each time we returned the cleaner we had the tricky operation of putting the tools upright to create the space for the cleaner and then gingerly replacing the cleaner without knocking any of the tools back down again (which was near enough impossible).  At no time did it ever occur to us to abandon the box and original packaging and just keep the cleaner and tools somewhere else.

I can't believe that we're the only family to have these 'Arkwright's Tin' moments.  Do you do anything like this?  Please let me know, otherwise I'm going to have to apply for one of those specially fitting jackets and have done with it!

Just a reminder that all of the books in the 'nostalgedy' collection (which includes the sort of tripe you've just read) are at their LOWEST POSSIBLE PRICE for the month of August.  Like this:

Steady Past Your Granny's 99p

Crutches for Ducks 99p (usually £2.49)

A Kick at the Pantry Door 99p (usually £1.49)

Giving a Bull Strawberries 99p (usuallly £1.49)

The Things You See £1.49 (usually £2.49)

The Nostalgedy Collection (all of the five books above) £5.45 (usually £8.95)

The Things You See paperback edition £5.99 (usually £7.99)

In each case, these are the lowest possible prices that Amazon will let me set.  Click on any of the titles above to go straight to the relevant Amazon product page.

If you want to augment your holiday reading, grab a bargain for the long winter nights to come or even buy an early Christmas present at a price that won't be repeated this year, just follow the links.  They will never be cheaper