There is an old Briddell cleaver tucked away at the back of he top drawer of my desk. I don't know how old it is, but it is pretty beat up, and somebody has done some hammering along the spine. My father used it in his kitchen for years, and it was old when he got it.

My wife is still miffed that the last time we had an intruder I didn't pull it down off the wall and split his skull with it, or cut off his hand, instead of just thumping him with a fist. I have explained to her very patiently that the days when we could engage our interlopers hand-to-hand are behind us; we have guns for that purpose now.

These days I would prefer that she not be able to find it too quickly.