This morning I was sorting out my son’s hair. He’s reached that age when his hair is more important to him than, say, breathing and woe betide us should we send him to school without first clagging his head up with gel, mousse, wax or any other industrial waste-like product to spring forth from the laboratories of some French cosmetics company (pretty sure they’re ALL French) to make it appear to the outside world that he’s been in some near-fatal industrial cocktail stick accident.
My mind is quiet now. The shouting. The swearing. The hammered digits. They’re all silent now. The only sound I hear is the blood rushing through my ears like Niagara falls as I stand, mallet in hand, and stare at the carnage before me. At my feet the 9v cordless drill whirrs to itself, it’s trigger taped down with duck tape. The word Budgiefuckers had been scratched into it’s plastic housing in some rage induced font.
After the ordeal of the chest of drawers I didn’t imagine that things could get worse.
But they could.
I hate flat packed furniture.
The screw guide holes are always that little bit too far to the left, you need a Phd in angles to get the doors to hang straight, the instructions always read like they were translated from Japanese into Hebrew through Flemish before eventually being hastily copied down in English by some hamfisted warehouse jocky called Steve, and fuck me if there isn’t always one piece either missing or that tiny little bit mis-shaped so that it doesn’t work quite as it’s supposed to.