In an impulsive moment, I ordered new furniture via the internet.
I didn’t read the small print. OBVIOUSLY. No-one reads the small print.
Today a few packages arrived. Fabulous, I thought, thinking my sex toy shop was sending me new stuff to review.
Nope. A writing desk. A side-table. Two stools. All in a zillion pieces in a few flat boxes.
Beautiful packaging, sure, but what am I supposed to do with all this stuff?
I immediately emailed the guy in Cape Town.
‘Come on Mister. I gotta assemble this? You could’ve told me.’
‘It’s there Violet,’ he replied. ‘All on the site. ALL OVER THE SITE.’
It is Swedish style furniture after all.
I tried. I tried for hours.
I’m still trying. Screws, hammers, nails. A that has to join up with B that leads to C and you know, there is no fucking way.
I’m dying to be that woman who can do everything. Change a lightbulb. Fix the plumbing. Put up a bookshelf.
But I have never been very good with instructions. And I am good with some tools but not these kind of tools.
I was about to change my dating profile to say that I’m looking for a handyman instead of a husband.
But I’m also listening to my boys saying they’re not going to settle for anything less than an A in their exams.
And you know. If they’re not giving up, neither am I.
Pass the hammer. I’m going to finish this damn table.
Then I’ll look for a husband.