Fear and Loathing In Suburbia

 Coming home to find the wife/ girlfriend standing in a doorway, hands on hips, looking wistfully into a room is enough to make any man who's been in a relationship for more than, ooh...20 minutes or so, break out in a sweat. And as she turns, smiles sweetly and says "You know, I've been thinking...." the blood, now running ice cold, drains from his face as he is hit with the sure and certain knowledge that his weekend is fucked! He'll either spend it up to his arse in emulsion and swatches of fabric that, frankly all look much the same, (N.B. Most men cannot differenciate between claret & maroon, taupe and mushroom, olive and avocado! It's red, brown or green I'm afraid, and if he can there's a fair to middling chance he's deceiving you, or himself!) or juggling sofas and sideboards to the tune of "No, left a bit. No! Not that far! Actually, can we try it over there by the window?" And after all that, after he's ruptured his truss, slipped several discs, and popped a hernia the size of a rugby ball, the beloved will return to the doorway, return the hands to the hips and say "Hmmm....maybe I preferred it the way it was..." And he needn't expect any sympathy for his agonies either! He may mutter through clenched teeth "What do you mean 'Just pop it over there'??? It's a solid oak Welsh fucking Dresser!!!!!" but he's likely to be answered with "Well the chap that brought it from the shop managed to move it on his own just fine." And it's no good saying  "Yeah? The "chap" in question was built like a Bulgarian olympic weightlifter you daft cow!!!!!!" She won't hear him . She'll be on the phone to her mum/sister/best friend to suggest they come round that evening for a barbeque and bottle of plonk to celebrate the new-look room.
 As a result of years of such abuse, my husband just gives me his best "sceptical husband" look whenever I mention furniture shifting, which I find rather annoying, so I dont mention it any more. These days I just wait until he's out of the way, have a quick game of hunt the toolbox, and set to myself. In this way I rearranged the youngest's room on Sunday. The only problem was that I was determined to un-bunk the Ikea bunk-beds, and this involved getting my hands on that holy-of-holies, his good set of allen-keys. After many hours, much sweating and swearing and the dumping of several bin-bags full of crap I was  happy. The room looked great. I turned to put away the keys I'd been using.....Aaaarrgghh! Oh bollocks! Where the Hell was the rest of the set? On the beds? In the beds? Under the beds? On the dining table? No! No! No! No! Having checked all of the most likely places, and some pretty unlikely ones, I had to conclude they'd gone out with the rubbish. Nothing else for it but to don the rubber gloves and get rummaging. Still no sign of the damn things. Fortunately they turned up today in a toy-box, so I'm off the hook and so's the husband. If they'd been lost forever I'd have had to argue that it was his own fault that I'd lost them, as if he'd been helping me, he wouldn't have lost them! ;-)