Moving Stories: Part Two...

The wardrobe was something we bought as part of a costly splurge on expensive bedroom furniture about four years ago. Sadly when it arrived at the new house there was no way it was going to fit up the stairs so it spent the first few days in a downstairs room.

Then I had a brainwave and thought I'd reveal my scheme to the Missus.
'I've had a look at the wardrobe and I think I can dismantle it, take all the bits upstairs then put it back together again.'
My idea is greeted with silence and a look that suggests I've just asked her to let me sleep with her best friend while she makes us a finger buffet for afters.

'I said I've...'
'I heard what you said.'
'I think I can do it...'
'Do you remember what that wardrobe cost?'
'Yes.'
'And you realise it was built by trained craftsmen with years of experience?'
'Yes.'
'And your qualification for undoing the work they did in assembling it then putting it back together is?'

I rack my brain then remember the words my Mother uttered to the first girlfriend I brought back from college in a bid to impress her.
'There was nothing I couldn't make out of lego when I was a kid...'
'Lego?'
'Ask my mum...'
'Lego?'
'It's the same theory. I'll just pretend it's a big lego kit and I'm eight.'
'It's not happening...'

An hour later the Missus pops into the back room and I have the first door off and the look of horror on her face is a picture. But with one door off we're in too deep and she now has to help me finish the job...

Three hours later the wardrobe stands in our bedroom. Everything is in place, it all works and it's solid as a rock. I am golden, I am Hercules, I am the Man Who Knew Too Much, I am eight-year-old Lego builder made good. Even the Missus is impressed...

Then a day later I try to hang a picture using dodgy hooks and it falls off the wall and smashes the frame and the triumph of wardrobegate is all but a distant memory.

I am now Bomber Harris, at one time lauded a hero but now confined to the pile entitled scumbags of history because of one small oversight...