DIY Disaster

Right. Most of my stuff now lives at 4a, Alexandra Court. But I’m still resident at 4, Maida Vale. Why, you ask? Because a day of DIY has left me feeling fraught and mentally too fragile to attempt anything as strenuous as unpacking and cleaning. This is my third DIY project, and I’ve yet to come across any DIY kit that can even touch Meccano’s precision and fine edges. Yesterday, was not entirely unexpected given I was in Scrooge mode, unwilling to part with more than £25 for the privilege of not having to rummage through a suitcase for my delicates every morning, and the Argos catalogue provided a suitably attractive pine wood finish rack which I planned on adorning with 3 seagrass baskets to hold my unmentionables.

First hurdle. The pretty baskets are minuscule, regardless of the unnatural volume of my lingerie. But neither the bedroom nor my budget will permit a grander display, so Emma and I lug my second round of furniture hunt, the first being a peculiar named coffee table donated by Taks. It could only be a pretentious inside out coconut (aka brown on the inside and white on the outside unlike my lovely man Ket) panju who would refer to a large wooden spool with bolts and splinters as a coffee table. No wonder he doesn’t want it back!.

Right, DIY time. Sexy muscles rip the cardboard to reveal a bunch of wooden slats and a packet of screws and no sign of instructions. Hmmmm. A sever poke around reveals a broadsheet of directions, sparking the memory of seeing my screwdriver set in the sole bag remaining at DDM’s. Plan B. Emma will empty the box while I will nip across to fetch work DIY implements. I return to German boot camp as Emma takes control. We start at the very beginning, and it is soon apparent, that items under £15 quid come free of quality. We grit our teeth, curse the incompetent male who obviously designed this, and wield the screwdriver with a vengeance.

Our assembly does not inspire confidence. Au contraire, it has a decidedly unattractive wobble element to it. He of the small dick and hairy bum is invoked a few more times, as a perfect summer day mocks us through the window. An irate blister takes birth on my thumb, and the frame looks like a lobongo lotika. We’re going to screw this thing together if it takes all our fingers, and Emma and I swap places, ruthlessly driving the screws into the wood. In the manner of all good design, the middle slats have no holes, so it’s blister raising brute strength, except for the wood is so poor, it splits at one edge, and just to keep things even, Emma’s screw splinters through the other end. Undaunted, an unanimous decision is taken; that is the bottom. More grunting, aching shoulders, unreserved swearing, blistered palms and fingers ensues.

Our eyes meet grimly over the wood, nod and raise the shelf. Hmmmm. Not exactly a renaissance sculpture, and we debate the wisdom of stacking anything less flimsy than lingerie. The smelly seagrass baskets go on the middle shelf that we both had a crack at, and we cart it to the bedroom and give it a critical once over. A shift of the rattan trunk, teal pillows peeking from under a chocolate duvet and suddenly, the bedroom looks like home. Emma’s prediction of the call in the middle of the night announcing that our construction has dumped my undies all over the floor and collapsed in a heap of shame over it, lingers in the air between us, but I’m quite pleased with our efforts. It does seem to be precious little to show for an afternoon of sweat and struggle but just that little bit (ok, the bed and trunk too) seems to have filled the bedroom.

Now, it’s just the living room that looks bereft. Unfortunately, that’s the way it’s going to stay. That spool will have to be cleaned and re-born as a stand for my Nakamichi, which leaves me with an inflatable mattress/pillow/cushions combination to lounge about on, a luggage installation in the corner, fabric and paintings on the wall and no coffee table. Hmmmm. Perhaps, I ought to re-visit the installation and transmogrify that into a table. Better start collection boxes too for the bedroom side table. Siiigh. I wonder if it would be bad form to ask Nela if I could borrow my side table for a bit. Six months feels like a loooong time!