"It's poetry, the penknife. It's a tool of the earth".

For many years now, I have carried a small Swiss Army knife everywhere I go. It’s a habit I picked up while writing my first novel, when I did a stint working for Daunt Books in Marylebone. Bookshop workers often carry penknives. The humble-looking tools are invaluable for opening boxes, prising open rusty cash registers, and — on occasion — defending the shop against disgruntled members of the public.

To this day, I use my penknife several times a week at least. I suggest you follow my example. The penknife is one of those objects-of-old which the digital age has failed to suppress. It’s poetry, the penknife. It’s a tool of the earth. Ploughshares, moleskines, penknives. Practically Biblical. I bet Hemingway had one. Plus, the smallest models are no problem to carry in your pocket. And you’ll find it’s of far more use than you thought.

Which brings me to the point. Last week I went to the Passport Service building in London, and my precious penknife was taken from me. To be fair, they gave me a receipt, but I forgot to redeem it; by the time I realised I was penknife-less, I was halfway to Winchester on the train. So I was forced to buy a replacement, which I did yesterday on Amazon, feeling slightly guilty at not giving the business to the local gun shop.

The penknife arrived this morning. The amount of packaging was obscene. I thought it was a book, at first. The tiny sucked sweet of a knife was encased in plastic and surrounded in a swanky cardboard box, as if it were an ipod or a male grooming set. With a mild sense of outrage I set about freeing my knife from its natural-resource-derived shackles. I struggled for a couple of minutes before the irony hit me. It hit me so hard I had to sit down.

In order to open the Swiss Army Knife packaging, you need a Swiss Army Knife.

Ah, the bastards. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.