I came home recently to find a giant mirror had literally fallen off my wall. I should’ve been shocked and shattered and oh my gosh all this bad luck, not good, but actually, I was delighted. The frame was a huge heavy mosaic given to … Continue reading On being a little impulsive
Last night I lay in bed tossing and turning, dreaming of my damn table. It’s been on three legs for close to a year.
I have to fix it.
When I woke this morning the first thing I did was write a huge note to myself.
FIX THE DINING ROOM TABLE.
I scribbled it in capital letters and in thick blood red pen.
To be honest, I’ve written it before. There are notes stuck on the fridge, on the front door, in my diary, on my arm and taped to my underwear drawer.
FIX THE DINING ROOM TABLE.
I don’t know why I can’t do it; I become immobile.
Anyway, today I had to do it. I have things coming up, dates and dinners and parties and I need a table that isn’t going to collapse.
With new determination and red pen all over my fingers, I showered and washed my hair. I put on my oldest jeans, the ones that are perfect for fixing tables, faded and full of holes.
They’re very nice, actually.
I wandered down to my coffee shop for a bit of sustenance. And to show off my jeans. I sipped a cappuccino, read the paper and ate a croissant while chatting to the man next to me.
We spoke about everything except tables.
I came home, looked at the table, looked at the tools, looked at the couch and went to lie down for a bit.
Woke up, did the laundry, did a bit of work, played some scrabble, flipped a few channels then went for a manicure because I have no fucking idea why I went for a manicure and what was I even thinking but my nails look great and I came home and now it’s evening and the table still has three legs.
I’m typing on it by the way.
In fact, every single blog I have ever written has been written on this three legged table.
I’ve even had sex on this table.
I’m not sure what the problem was, why I was so anxious.
It’s not important.
I’ll think about it tomorrow.
Where’s my red pen?
The most exciting mail that I got today read like this:-
‘Dear Violet. I’m so impressed by your DIY as shown on your blog. Can you please give me more info on the stools and table?’
Usually, I get asked questions about the best place to meet a man, the most succesful dating apps, or where to find the g-spot.
Through my table building process, I have realised that DIY is very similar to sex.
It is very bloody satisfying.
A package arriving at the door is like foreplay.
Coaxing bits and pieces out of the bubble wrap is stimulating.
Fiddling around with screws and nails, kinda bloodcurdling.
Discovering the use of the Allan Key is as good as finding your g-spot.
And using a drill is the equivalent of a multiple orgasm.
The only difference is that DIY should be done under bright lights whereas sex is often best in the dark.
DIY, like sex, is not always easy.
But it is usually fun.
And I have had too much fun.
I’m afraid I may be a little obsessed so please excuse me while I look for my hammer.
I’m wearing a hard hat instead of heels and gloves instead of a garter belt.
And I’m sorry, dear reader.
But I may never pick up my vibrator again.