“A good beginning is more than half of the whole”
At least, that’s what Aristotle claimed
A well-planned endeavor is “half the success”
Like other naive souls, Aristotle never had to deal with the true masters of planning—government officials. They plan budget increases for teachers, librarians, archivists, and the healthcare system. The plans are beautifully crafted, confirmed, and agreed upon. Spreadsheets swell with pride. And then… well, the money mysteriously disappears, ends up in a different category, or even in an entirely different ministry. Some say in a different country.
And Aristotle? He never had the pleasure of visiting Old Merry Springs. I suspect he would have written far fewer things had he lived here. He would have immediately realized that all his highfalutin ideas were pointless—they wouldn’t stand a chance in a head-on collision with the villagers. And yet, as everyone knows, if something can’t be done in Old Merry Springs, it can’t be done anywhere in the world. This is an absolute dogma! And yet, this supposedly brilliant Aristotle never figured that one out. Tsk, tsk…
“Eureka!”
I had just come up with a solution to many of humanity’s most pressing problems. Or at least, mine. And probably some of Old Merry Springs’ as well.
THE AUTOMATIC NOSE SCRATCHER
You know the situation: both hands are occupied, but your nose is itching, and you just can’t free your hands because you’re carrying a priceless vase for President Trump. Or, well, for his doppelgänger, who lives in the house next door. Auntiekins, however, insists that he is Trump’s twin brother—banished to this godforsaken hole by the Not-So-Wise-But-Quite-Canny Mr. Trump. And while this second Trump is undoubtedly highly intelligent, he is also hopelessly clueless and utterly unfit for the real world.
But Auntiekins was relentless. No excuse could deter her. Not that the tomatoes needed to have their dew wiped off because they detest moisture dripping off their leaves like some kind of nasal excretion. Not that the geese were waiting their turn to have their feathers groomed because today, they were sharing the paddock with the ducks, and one simply could not be seen in ruffled feathers. I even considered mentioning the mile-long fence that needed painting, but Auntiekins shot me a look—that one look of hers that instantly rendered all excuses null and void. I swallowed my words, gulped, and the suppressed complaint tumbled down into my stomach, slid through my intestines like a waterslide, and made a dramatic exit from the other end… Oops.
“I told you that eating beans for dinner was a bad idea. Now, get yourself together. You are going to deliver that priceless vase to the Highly-Intelligent-But-Woefully-Inept Mr. Trump. The last time I saw him, he mentioned he’d spotted one at Downey’s store and considered buying it.”
“But why does he need this vase? If he wants one, he can buy it himself…”
“How can you be so dumb?! This is diplomacy. I give him the vase, and he recommends you for a government position under the president.”
“I’m not sure I even want that…”
“Stop being picky. A government job is a government job. Now move it!”
And so, I moved. I was carrying that cursed vase when—halfway there—my nose started itching. First, a light tickle on the side of my nostril. Then, the itch crept deeper. And suddenly, the only thought in my mind was: “I have to scratch, I have to scratch, damn it, I HAVE TO SCRATCH MY NOSE!” But there was that damn vase! I couldn’t set it down—it had a rounded bottom. Huge as a bathtub. The stand was strapped to my back. And then, the inevitable happened. I sneezed, tripped, and the vase shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. You do NOT want to know what happened next…
That’s why I immediately realized what a groundbreaking invention like a nose scratcher would be. And it wasn’t even about that government job with the Not-So-Wise-But-Quite-Canny Mr. Trump. No, it was about the spiritual, mental, and physical torment Auntiekins inflicted upon me after I shattered the vase.
Well, then, let’s get back on track. I have ADHD, so I get distracted easily. I say one thing, then another pops into my head, and then something else. Someone asks me for directions, like last week… STOP!
“So… I know you’re not supposed to start a sentence with ‘so,’ but what are you going to do about it?!”
“Well, so (and you’re not supposed to start with ‘well, so’ either).”
So I leaped out of bed with a brilliant idea still swirling in my barely awakened gray cells. In a rush, I searched for pants, a notebook, a pencil, and, of course, my glasses—because nature blessed me with beautiful eyesight but tragically nearsighted. I found everything, but don’t ask me in what order. I’ll only say that as I was writing down my brilliant thought, Auntiekins barged in.
“Johny!!! Put on your pants immediately! What if Lucy walked in here?”
“I wouldn’t mind,” I muttered. Though, realistically, our beautiful neighbor Lucy had never stepped beyond the porch of our house.
Obediently, I pulled on my pants.
“What are you doing?”
“I just came up with a brilliant idea. Now I know how I could have avoided the vase incident. These things happen—not just to me,” I quickly added because I could already see Auntiekins’ chest swelling with air for another tirade on my stupidity, clumsiness, laziness, and ignorance (though, frankly, I wasn’t sure what ignorance had to do with breaking a vase, but let’s not dwell on that). “If I had a nose scratcher attached to my glasses, none of this would have happened! That’s what!” I exclaimed, triumphantly staring at Auntiekins.
And the Earth stood still. The Sun moved. Auntiekins did not erupt into her usual grumbling, squawking, or shrill laughter. No. Auntiekins remained silent and stared at me with intense focus. I started feeling uneasy. Had I stunned her with my brilliance? Or—more likely, and unfortunately, all signs pointed to this—had she finally concluded that my foolishness was incurable?
“Johny,” she began slowly, “Johny, my boy… I think I may have underestimated you.”
“Really?” I nearly choked. “You think it’s a good idea?”
“We need to consult with Unclekins”
Ah, Unclekins. He wasn’t Auntiekins’ husband—Auntiekins was a spinster by deep conviction. He wasn’t her brother. He wasn’t even a relative. He was just… Unclekins. Always. Since the beginning of time. And possibly before.
If Auntiekins deemed my idea worthy of Unclekins’ opinion, then I knew—something extraordinary was happening. Unclekins was the smartest man in the whole village, just as Lucy was the most beautiful. People didn’t bother Unclekins with nonsense. He pondered the most crucial questions of the universe, global affairs, and existence’s ontological and metaphysical problems.
Right after breakfast, we dressed up—because you didn’t just visit Unclekins in everyday clothes. Before noon, Auntiekins knocked with the brass door knocker. The door opened to reveal Mrs. Merrywater, the housekeeper, with a gaze so bottomlessly grim that I wondered why the “merry” in her name hadn’t run away screaming.
Unclekins greeted us with dignity and warmth, offering us tea and butter cookies. Regardless of how gloomy Mrs. Merrywater looked, her butter cookies could have been served at the Queen of England’s table.
We were listened to intently, with great concentration. Then Unclekins leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on the table. He peered at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows (have you noticed how uncles always have bushy eyebrows?) and solemnly declared:
“Johny, my son, I always knew there was a spark of wisdom smoldering within you. I only feared that your bottomless foolishness would extinguish it forever. But it has survived—and today, it has revealed itself.”
And with that, Unclekins called all the community’s most important members and invited them to a business lunch.
When Mrs. Merrywater heard this, her expression could not have become more sullen—because it had already reached the depths of gloom. No, her face actually brightened with a smile of diabolical satisfaction, for she knew that Unclekins would have to pay her handsomely for this unexpected disruption.
This further convinced me that my idea was, in fact, not too bad. Unclekins wouldn’t risk provoking the housekeeper without good reason.
And so, the finest minds of the village gathered for the first official meeting: Mrs. Smith, the teacher; Mr. Wood, the retired engineer; Mr. Bloomsberry, the pastor; and Mr. Nicholson, the notary.
I won’t go into detail about the discussions, planning, debates, and negotiations. We worked the entire afternoon, evening, and late into the night—analyzing every pro and con, distributing roles, and strategizing finances. Like a great strategist, Unclekins sketched out a Gantt chart on the garage door, set up a Kanban board, and had everyone install ClickUp. Tasks were assigned, listed, tagged, and estimated. The campaign was planned with caution and wisdom. We went to bed with a sense of a job well done.
And the next morning, everyone went back to their daily routines.
Unclekins’ dog ate the notebook with our meticulously written plan.
I suspect that Mrs. Merrywater may have had something to do with it…