20/05/2026
When I was nine years old, my grandfather placed a small hammer into my palms as though he were passing down a secret. It was old already then — smooth wooden handle, steel worn bright by decades of work. I remember the way he smiled when I turned the tool over in my hands, unsure what made it so special.
“Take care of it,” he said. “And it’ll take care of you.”
I thought it was only a gift.
I didn’t know it was the beginning of a lifelong affliction.
At first, it was innocent enough. One hammer hanging neatly on the wall. One chisel wrapped carefully in cloth. A hand plane discovered at a market stall. Every new tool carried a story, a weight, a mystery. I told myself each one had a purpose. That I needed it. That this would surely be the last.
But tools have a way of whispering to you.
At flea markets, I’d find myself digging through rusted boxes while the rest of the world walked by uninterested. I learned to recognise the makers by touch alone. I could hear quality in the click of a ratchet or see history buried beneath rust and neglect. Some tools begged to be restored. Others carried scars that deserved to remain untouched.
Years passed. Shelves filled. Drawers became cabinets. Cabinets became workshops.
Friends would walk in, stare at the walls crowded with iron and timber and steel, and ask, “What do you even need all these for?”
I never had a good answer.
Because it was never really about needing them.
It was about the search.
For a while, I truly believed there would come a day when I’d own every tool I ever wanted. The perfect collection. The final piece. The last impossible find that would complete the puzzle.
But somewhere along the road, I understood something my grandfather probably knew all along.
There is no end to it.
With every discovery comes that same feeling I had as a child — the quiet thrill of holding possibility.
Some people collect wealth. Some chase fame.
I chase tools.
And though the search will never end, I’ve realised that’s exactly what makes it beautiful. 😬
