Pennyhedron

Sometimes the simplest things are sent to catch you out… and when they do, you should probably keep that to yourself. You definitely shouldn’t tell your puzzling mates about how much of an eedjit you are – and you probably shouldn’t write it up on your own blog – that’s just asking for scorn, shame and laughter at your own expense. 

So here goes…

I recently acquired a little Pennyhedron to add to my modest Krasnow collection. The seller’s description mentioned that the fit was pretty snug and it would be shipped assembled. It arrived in the expected condition and it looked lovely… a perfectly petite puzzle. 

Knowing that it was a three-finger Pennyhedron (other Pennyhedrons may exist) I set about trying to open it… trying this way and that, changing axis every now and then, first pulling and then pushing, adjusting my grip a little, then pulling a bit harder, repeating the entire process and then trying pushing even harder – all with not a lot of success. 

I repeated this process across the course of several evenings, always with the exact same result: singular piece of Pennyhedron stares mockingly back at me. 

I begin to wonder if I’m going to need to resort to Chinny’s final solution for Pennyhedra – the large mallet. 

Luckily for me I’m due a visit from the puzzle-whisperer, so I give it to him muttering something about damned three-finger Pennyhedron and he sets about opening it, rather quickly, because it’s not a three-finger Pennyhedron after all – it’s a two-fingered Pennyhedron – and using the correct two finger salute, of course it slides open perfectly (refer maker’s name, after all).  

So I feel a bit of an eedjit, but I decide I should take it along to MPP the next morning and hope some others will fall into the same trap as I have. 

I try it out on Oli who calmly assumes the correct two-fingered salute, flukes the orientation and simply slides it open…

It’s just me then.

I’m an eedjit. 

But it’s a beautifully made example from Lee so I’ll get over my embarrassment one of these days. 

Don’t cry for me, ardent reader.