It struck a chord with me. My mum would kill me if she found out I'd used her good scissors to cut anything. The good scissors are used to cut things while she sews. They were Good. We had a pair of crap scissors for cutting everything else, and they were used to cut everything while the good scissors sat in a drawer and were Good.
I told mum about the bloke on telly, and she laughed a lot. She'd just met up with her friends that day for a craft session, and they commented on how her scissors were good, and how they all had trouble keeping their scissors Good.
"Yeah, but you let us use your good scissors to cut things," I said. "Sometimes we need their edge."
Mum gave me a funny look, then she said: "But these aren't really the Good Scissors." She went to the Sewing Drawer; that drawer full of scraps of cloth, felt, lace, spools of cotton and pin-cushions dating back to The Coronation; the drawer that is really hard to open; the drawer under the small spare bed in the spare room that Mum has her ironing board in; the drawer that no one opens, except mum, because it's The Sewing Drawer.
She opened the drawer and pulled out a pair of Good Scissors. They were still in their plastic wallet. They shone, and had enamelled red handles. These weren't Good Scissors, they were The Good Scissors.
I don't believe this. My mum has hidden a pair of The Good Scissors and let us think the scissors in the kitchen drawer were Good Scissors. I'd feel upset if I wasn't laughing so much.
So today I cut Scruffy's fur with the Good Scissors and didn't feel guilty at all