When the power mower broke and wouldn't run, I kept hinting to my husband that he ought to get it fixed, but somehow the 'message' never sank in. Finally, I thought of a clever way to make my point.
When my husband arrived home that day, he found me seated in the tall grass, busily snipping away with a tiny pair of sewing scissors. He watched silently for a short time and then went into the house. He was gone only a few moments when he came out again. He handed me a toothbrush. "When you finish cutting the grass," he said, "you might as well sweep the driveway."
The doctors say he will probably live, but it will be quite awhile before all the casts come off.