IMAGINE a pre-clean Bobby Gillespie crossed with a Border Collie and you have what I’m sharing the aisle with in the DIY warehouse.
The BoyF is racing back and forward, checking I’m there, running away again, performing perfect get away come bys, all the while muttering “do what we wanna do”, “be free to be what we wanna be” type things, while I’m perusing bins.
“Why are you spending your life looking at bins?” he says, nipping round my ankles. “Come on, come on!” He races off past the light fittings then returns to shout, “Yes, yes, buy that one, or that one, or that one,” before racing off up the paint aisle.
“I want something that fits the space exactly,” I say as he passes on one of his circuits. “I’ve measured it. Maybe one for recycling and one for the landfill, side by side…”
I’d lost him at “measured”. He’s right. I don’t want to waste my life on bins. It’s a blind I came in for.
Since the dishwasher died years ago the blind behind the sink has metamorphosed into a treasure map, sepia stained and ripped. It’s time for a new one. How difficult can it be? I’ve even measured the window with one of the four tape measures I found in Middle Child’s room. The rigid ones that rewind when you press a button: he finds this pleasing. But he doesn’t need four of them.
Blind purchased, back home I seek assistants. Eldest Child needs to walk to the abandoned lighthouse, Middle heads for the Pentlands with a picnic, and the BoyF trumps them by leaving for Cairngorm. As for Youngest, she’s way ahead, already on a sleepover.
So, two hacksawed fingers and a return trip to buy a replacement blind (don’t ask) later, with one foot in the sink, one on the ledge, I slot the new blind in place. By now it’s dark outside so I pull it down. It’s a thing of beauty.
Next morning I forget it’s not a regular blind, but one put up by me, and pull at the cord. It won’t budge. Typical. This was always going to happen.
I should have gone for the bins.