Last week, our noname snap-off cutter broke. I tried prying its locking mechanism open to see what it was that’d stopped working. After a bunch of misguided bruteforce attempts, I remembered patience and coconut oil. It took a while to pull the parts apart and pull the stuck blade back in, yet the disassembly did not offer any clues to fixing what was clearly broken. The mechanism inside most retractable blade cutters is a simple folded piece of metal that works like a spring (when it does) and keeps the blade from sliding in when it isn’t meant to be. The one inside this noname sample looked rusty; a shadow of its former flexible self. After a few futile attempts at revival I gave up and started looking for the easy way out via the epitome of twentyfirstcentury fixes to almost everything: one-day-express-delivery.

The Stanley 0-10-018 arrived today as I was helping wrangle some text into shape (and cracking some too many lame jokes over G-Meet) for River’s Copy Guidelines. Thus it took another five hours before I tore into the packet and this beauty presented itself. (Ru had come to visit for this was Holi-eve. We drove her home since Uber had other plans.) The Stanley opens unlike most cutters (that I have had the misfortune of acquantance-ing) into two halves as you loosen the yellow turnkey. The two halves grip the blade in a vice-like strong hold when in use. When not in use, the closed halves make sure the blade doesn’t accidentally slide out on its own. Each part has lovely detail. The metal feels substantial against your palm in a way that ‘industrial’ products only can. (I’m reminded of the Peacock Teal Green Classic 500 from ten years ago. The metallic flakes in the paint perhaps helps.)

The thing itself is chefskiss-well-built but what caught all my attention was the namesake packaging all of this was holding on to. The cutter holds—showing off its formfollowingfunction—the die-cut piece of plastic between its (the cutter’s not the plastic-piece’s) heavy metal halves, with a tiny blade-drawing sticking out with its tongue firmly in its cheek. This was delightful to look at, made even better by the almost absurd volume-contrast between the content-slash-object and its ‘container.’ To top the cherry, the only way one could take out this piece of ‘packaging’ was by unscrewing the two halves and pulling, teaching one most of the ‘how-to’ in the process. That, in my corner of Tabebuia-carpeted Bengaluru, is what we call brilliance. The piece of paper/plastic itself is well-crafted. The material choice (neither paper, nor glossy plastic), the illustration (all-business, no frills), and the copy (all information, no discombobulation), and even the subtly round-cornered die-cuts; everything—everthing—works well together to make you happy.

I’ve had an Olfa Circle Cutter since Paldi. I’d accidentally got smitten at Roopkala one day and eventually cut a lot of circles out of foam board for multiple exhibitions I was freelancing for. (I had no idea circle cutters existed. I had no reference for how much they cost.) We recently ‘invested’ in an Olfa cutting mat via Goodwill Enterprises. I have slowly come to see value in spending time and effort on well-built (and in this case, well packaged as well) everyday tools. I realise it was always money—and the lack of it most of the time—that delayed this realisation.

That conveniently, bitter-sweet-ly, brings me to March of 2014. We started working out of #6BCB eleven years ago. KL11 is eleven this month. I managed to print some basic T-shirts from Decathlon a couple of weeks ago and been cycling through the colours everyday. (To the understandable annoyance of R who got me a tasteful thrift-stored MUJI coord set via Janpath last week.) The brand team at River surprised us with a layercake today. As usual, we (M and I) were caught somewhat lost in the moment and the photo-slash-video-graphic evidence is telling. That too (not our lack of obvious reaction, but their gesture), made me happy today, among other things/people.

Grateful, etcetera.