Here’s the story of a personal suffering, bad timing, and a sexy fridge.
‘Are doors louder on shutting without any coats on them’, I wondered. I feel it’s a good point. Since I took the hook and coats down, every time I shut the door, I swear the noise of the closure is louder than it was prior to removing the hook and coats. I don’t know why. It often leaves me in a quiet state of amusing befuddlement.
The decorator is in with his paintbrush and paint. It dawned on me on Monday morning that moving all the stuff for him could end in disaster. The washing machine tipping over and causing the house to flood as its hose flailed about wildly spraying water everywhere. As disastrous as this possible scenario sounds, I did smile at the prospect of not having to wash all the surfaces and dust every orifice. And I don’t know about you, but orifice dusting isn’t my forte.
I often spend that little moment before starting work on something, going through all the possible scenarios that can go wrong. Now, one could assume that this is extremely pessimistic, but one could also argue that this is good planning in the event of a disaster striking. I’ll perhaps agree on the first point, but on the latter, I’m less inclined to do so. You see, in every scenario, I die in a horribly comical accident and mother spends weeks cleaning bits of what used to be me from the walls.
The time came to lift the washing machine. It started well enough. Dad and I got it onto the floor, onto the dolly, and rolled it gently toward the conservatory. It was all going smashingly well. Surprisingly so. Up and over our homemade ramp. Three-inch drop, but no worries, my sexy toes were safe. It just needed lifting into place. To say it slipped out of my hands and hurtled toward my precious areas, is a scene that is impossible to convey the seriousness of in writing.
Now, I’m not melodramatic, but there was blood. And a ‘gash’. This, for me, is around two inches long and about a hair’s width deep. But my wrist was bleeding. Slightly. I gazed over at the washing machine to see a streak of red down its side. I’m not going to lie to you. At that precise moment, I thought to myself, ‘Ah, so that’s why they don’t make them in red’.
Bandaged up, I carried on moving said stuff. It was a day best forgotten, a day that, as well as the washing machine debacle, included me getting stuck behind a fridge for a considerable amount of time. I remember being extremely upset that the side I was stuck behind was the back and not the front. I was so hungry. A man can go crazy staring at the back of a fridge. The pipes started to become very attractive to me.
I tried my hardest to put the pain of that day behind me.
I was excited to see the results of the first part of the painting. The brilliant white results. My ‘tour’ started well. The paint fumes were intoxicating. The ceiling was a delight in its coat of fresh white paint. The elves of Saigon Morris danced majestically with ribbons coated in Zaire diamonds of the finest weaves of freshly hippy-made hessian. I probably should’ve taken a lie down at that point.
The last room of my ‘tour’ was the downstairs toilet, or ‘bathroom’ as we call it. I flicked on the light-switch and the house went dark. Dad and I stumbled and repeatedly tripped our way into the conservatory to find a torch. Success! Onto the garage to flick the tripped switch back on.
Despite the lights returning, the downstairs bathroom bulb had blown. So, under torchlight, we found some ladders and, inside the smallest room imaginable, we squeezed the ladders, two grown men, a torch and many tools.
Dad suffered the first blow. He banged his head. I couldn’t help but laugh. Always laugh in the face of adversity or you’d never conquer it. We carried on valiantly trying to wrangle the light cover off, which fell on us. I had to hold it in one hand whilst holding the torch in the other, whilst dad, pushed up against one wall, tried to unscrew the screws. Dad suffered the second blow, too. He banged his head again. The ladders sort of gave way, which meant I had to wrap my foot around one of its legs and balance on my tippy-toes on the toilet seat. The fragile, ceramic toilet seat. If that had shattered under my weight, one of us wouldn’t have made it out of there alive, and I’ll be damned if I die in a bathroom.
In a desperate attempt to get the perilous situation over with, I threw the dead light bulb on the floor. That was my intention. Didn’t quite pan out like that. It landed in the hard, ceramic sink. That was – unpleasant. I don’t know how we managed to get the new bulb in, the cover back on, and make it out alive, but we did. It was all such an incredible blur of hilarity and bonding. In a bathroom. How British.
I then moved onto my next job. I thought sanding would be easy. A nice gentle end to the week. I don’t know why I ever think positively. Whoever invented electric sanders needs a shoe thrown at them. Do you have any idea what it’s like to slip and accidentally sand your own arm? In the same place you dropped a washing machine on it! And then to scream in a white, dusty, tiny, confined space with no protective gear on, inhaling large quantities of dust into lungs already 80% full of the stuff, only to find yourself lurching forward in agony and banging your head off a wall? Because it bloody hurts!
With my lifespan significantly reduced, I went downstairs, a bedraggled, dusty man coughing like there was no tomorrow, and put in the oven the last pizza in the freezer.
I burnt it. A ruined, charcoaled mess. Sniff. Can I have a hug?
I think I need a lie down. Don’t be surprised if you don’t hear from me again…
American writer, publisher, artist and philosopher, Elbert Hubbard (1856-1915) once said: “Do not take life too seriously. You will never get out of it alive”.
Peace Out :|:
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