The harmless flatness of its slapper hung up on the nail against the wall. The 1.9 metres of inert unmoved force. The braided tails of it. The tufts, tassels, the snaky spiral of it. The whistle flick of it through space. The definite clunk of its handle. The brand new never-smelt-before smell of air from outside our country. The flexible shaft. It’s useable condition. The thirsty pores. The appetites it deters. The future it safeguards. The way you learn to laugh it off. How the leather starts off sift suede and hardens. The way the wasted muscle loosens the fist. The innocent grip.