My husband bought a chipper a few years back. A bright shiny orange thing with a wide gaping mouth. Plenty big enough to swallow a pair of perfectly positioned pliers into its angry depths. And to then make a nasty graunching sound and grind to a halt.
He may have already recouped his initial outlay in dump saving costs before that fateful day but after that, it sat in the garage taking up precious floor space. With a very twisted pair of pliers inside waiting to be extracted.
Extraction day did finally come, the shape of the pliers now resembling something Uri Geller may have put his mind to.
Many months later — it may have even been longer — and not being of a particularly mechanical persuasion, the thing was pulled apart and fiddled with. A metal flap lay on the concrete garage floor, evidence the thing was in the throes of being fixed. There may have even been a tool of some sort lying nearby. Things were definitely progressing.
Fast forward another span of time and with a bit of flailing about, lo and behold the flails were fixed and she chugged into life. Mangled innards and all. The day had arrived, twigs needed seeing to and the beast was about to be rolled forth.
