THE TIME has come to put the doors on Youngest Child’s wardrobe.
We’ve had a break of a fortnight in which to heal the emotional and physical wounds inflicted by harsh words and the screwdriver, and we are ready for a fresh assault on the pile of planks listing dangerously in one corner of her room.
While Youngest wields her hammer with gusto, the mere sight of the wardrobe sickens me.
Screws (not the right ones) litter the floor. Two have broken through the exterior casing so I slap a couple of Youngest’s Andy Warhol pictures on top. “Oh, you’ve started the decoration already, that looks nice,” she says. She’ll never know.
It doesn’t look like the one in the warehouse. Then again, the one in the warehouse had a wee Mr Whippy of excrement next to it that the staff were whispering about. “Is it dog?” said one. “No, it’s human,” came the appalled response. I’m not surprised. Probably deposited by a disgruntled shopper who’d returned to get even. At least our effort is s*** free. So far.
Brute force is required so we call the BoyF through. He tries to break the tension by saying “Get the bloody doors on” in a misquoted massacre of Sir Michael Caine in The Italian Job. Then before I can stop him he reaches up and lifts one of the Andy Warhols.
“Oh! Did you know the screws had broken through here?” he says.