Simplicity
Simple things make me happy. Today I decided to remove my record player from its precarious position on wobbly floorboards. This involved a trip to two DIY shops.
First stop H*****e. On first appearances this shop appears well stocked, yet it is only a facade of shiny foolsgold. I approach the aisle of wall brackets and my heart sinks. These won't do at all, as a man I demand something more substantial, with cross bracing perhaps?
This shop is not for me. I know I have good DIY skills, the trouble occurs when I send the signals from my brain to my hands. I need to be treated seriously regardless of my (self diagnosed) learning difficulties. I need to go to a serious shop, one that sells big pieces of wood with enough power tools to keep the A-Team happy.
So I make my way to a DIY superstore, W****s. This is more like it. A ceiling so high you can see cloud formations, acres of wood and nuts and bolts and spanners.
Then the fear kicks in, I'm here to buy some brackets and fixings, however I'm surrounded by hairy men buying whole forests. How can I compete?
My panic recedes as I find the necessary goods, it only took 20 minutes. If I had asked it may have been quicker. But asking was not an option, asking is an admission of weakness, I couldn't show weakness amongst these hairy apes, my kin.
I return home carrying my purchases like the spoils of war or a dead stag, my mouth red with the blood of its succulent liver. I went into the world of the hairy beasts and I survived. Grrrrr.
Now to work. The wood I have selected for my shelf is a piece of kitchen worktop rescued from a skip. The problem's of putting up my shelf have just begun.
1- The wall is wonky.
I bodge my way through this one with a combination of brute force and swearing through gritted teeth, noble and endearing abilities.
2- My drill bit isn't long enough (a sad confession).
More brute force and chipped plaster.
3- I only have two hands
Sadly only more swearing could rectify this one.
Finally my work is complete. With trepidation I place my spirit level on the finished article.
I am victorious, gaze upon my triumph and weep. I have defied the gods of bad walls and cock eyed surfaces.
My turntable now sits on a shelf isolated from (most) vibration. I turn it on for the moment of truth, argh! it sounds f****ed up.
Oh bollocks, the stylus needs changing.
First stop H*****e. On first appearances this shop appears well stocked, yet it is only a facade of shiny foolsgold. I approach the aisle of wall brackets and my heart sinks. These won't do at all, as a man I demand something more substantial, with cross bracing perhaps?
This shop is not for me. I know I have good DIY skills, the trouble occurs when I send the signals from my brain to my hands. I need to be treated seriously regardless of my (self diagnosed) learning difficulties. I need to go to a serious shop, one that sells big pieces of wood with enough power tools to keep the A-Team happy.
So I make my way to a DIY superstore, W****s. This is more like it. A ceiling so high you can see cloud formations, acres of wood and nuts and bolts and spanners.
Then the fear kicks in, I'm here to buy some brackets and fixings, however I'm surrounded by hairy men buying whole forests. How can I compete?
My panic recedes as I find the necessary goods, it only took 20 minutes. If I had asked it may have been quicker. But asking was not an option, asking is an admission of weakness, I couldn't show weakness amongst these hairy apes, my kin.
I return home carrying my purchases like the spoils of war or a dead stag, my mouth red with the blood of its succulent liver. I went into the world of the hairy beasts and I survived. Grrrrr.
Now to work. The wood I have selected for my shelf is a piece of kitchen worktop rescued from a skip. The problem's of putting up my shelf have just begun.
1- The wall is wonky.
I bodge my way through this one with a combination of brute force and swearing through gritted teeth, noble and endearing abilities.
2- My drill bit isn't long enough (a sad confession).
More brute force and chipped plaster.
3- I only have two hands
Sadly only more swearing could rectify this one.
Finally my work is complete. With trepidation I place my spirit level on the finished article.
I am victorious, gaze upon my triumph and weep. I have defied the gods of bad walls and cock eyed surfaces.
My turntable now sits on a shelf isolated from (most) vibration. I turn it on for the moment of truth, argh! it sounds f****ed up.
Oh bollocks, the stylus needs changing.
posted by big-gig at 11:52 pm
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home