The Case of the Broken Can Opener

Just at the point of wailing over brain’s incompetence to perform integrals and differentiation and lacklustre report writing, I broke my can opener over a can of tuna. The five minutes staring at the scattered little pieces of screws and nuts was filled with evil thoughts that I would turn out an epic fail engineer.

I abandoned the dysfunctional thing on the corner of the chopping board while I mutilated a couple of Bird’s Eyes chillies and tore a handful of leaves off the lettuce head in vengeance. I managed to open the can about three-quarter way through before the above mentioned tool gave up on me, so all it took was a little push and the can prised open, revealing a modest portion of wholesome protein goodness.

Halfway through mixing my tuna salad, I stopped and went back to look at the half-broken tool. I glanced at another can opener lying around (not mine) and somehow got the epiphany to fix it together again.

Hallelujah! The fixing worked!

Maybe my being an engineer wouldn’t turn out so bad after all.

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