get back in the closet…
…and hold the doors closed.
Phil, who has spent the past six months chez Trollet Dollet in the role of “The Lodger,” awaiting the finalisation of the purchase of his fab new pad in swinging central London Town, has finally moved into the vast(ish) and empty space.
So, what’s the first thing a self-respecting home-owning homo purchases? Tables? Chairs? A wardrobe.
Well, we can always eat out, at the very tasty Gourmet Burger Kitchen(we can recommend the chicken, cranberry and camembert burger with chips and smoked chili mayo; almost beyond delish), and why worry about sitting, when standing is so good for developing the calves (if not so good for keeping the varicose veins at bay).
But when your travels have provided you with an enormous selection of choice garments from the best sale racks and factory outlets that the North American Continent has to offer, there’s only one piece d’immeublethat is truly vital. So where does one purchase ones closet? Armani Casa? A small, family owned woodturners in the West Country? An importer of Indonesian Cherry Wood work in deepest darkest Sussex?
Oh what fun we had on Saturday, D, Phil and myself. And a flatpack IKEA wardrobe.
Choice lines:
P, atop a stepladder, about to secure the upper door hinges, as D holds the lower hinges secure: “Right, I’m gonna screw this one right up to the nut, then I’m coming down for yours.”
Me: “That’s a line you don’t hear very often.”
As P pushes the small wooden dowlings into the pre-bored holes.
D: “Dont push it in too far; I think it’s meant to stick out a bit.”
P: “No, it’s all sorted: You can’t push it in any further than it wants to go. Any further, and you’d rupture something, I’m, sure.”
D: “God, they’re clever, these Swedes.”
P: “Why’s it so wobbly?”
Me: “It’s IKEA.”
D: “Your floor’s uneven. Christ, it’s on a 45 degree angle.”
Me, on all fours, holding a vast mirrored door, “Ooh, this angle makes my calves look really well developed. Now, how can I spend the next week on al fours having people admire my lower legs?”
P, again, atop a ladder, attempting, with D’s assistance, to hook the door hinges, for the second time, onto the wobbling body of the wardrobe: “I can’t get it in the hole. Oh, hang on, Up a bit. Wait… wait… No! Fuck it,so close. (Deep breaths), right, steady, slowly, down. That’s it. Bang it in the ‘ole, baby. Oh yeah!”#
Me: “A series of words I never wanted to hear you utter to my husband..”
P (in dismay): “Why do the doors keep flying open? Why won’t they stay closed?”
D: “Zac Efron’s inside.”
Me: “It’s IKEA.”
D, on all fours attempting to hold another of those hideously weighty mirrored doors into the pre-drilled holes: “I can’t hold it any more… (strain, sweat) I can’t hold it. Its coming out. Ooooh. Sorry. Should have held it a little longer.”
Me: “A line Ive heard so often…”
‘Drobe up, gourmet burgers consumed, we head home, and, before bedtime I have the following text exchange with Phil:
-It hasn’t moved, so I think it’s OK. But I’m sleeping on the far side of the bed tonight. How embarrassing would it be if I was discovered crushed to death by a wardrobe. Surrounded by chipboard.
-Bite your tongue, girl! Surrounded by chipboard-spattered fabulous fashions. What a way to go.