I think everyone at some time in their life has heard this phrase yelled by their mother when going to cut up some bits of paper, string, little brother, or carpet. These were the scissors she would use as part of her sewing arsenel, to make embarrasing items of clothing for the whole family. I don't think these scissors even came off the cardboard backing from the shop, or maybe mum would carefully untie and re-tie the little wire ties that were holding it on when she used them. Enough about the fucking good scissors mum, I'd like to call them the NEAREST scissors.

This phrase scared me, because if The Good Scissors were what I was holding, then somewhere lurking about the house were... THE BAD SCISSORS .... the ones that would sneak into your room late at night and cut holes in your socks, and they were the ones that cut open the new carton of orange juice before the old one was finished.

I live by myself now, and have not yet established a class system for cutting implements, they are all MY scissors.