Collapsible Living.
Everything in my flat is
falling apart at once; if not at once, in tiny increments.
The first thing to falter was my kitchen door handle. A few months ago, it began its gradual decline in service. I now daren’t touch it, for fear it will come off in my hand (sexy). It no longer has a purpose, save the potential for a slapstick moment. If I were a proper man, I’d fix it, but I’m not. Who needs access to white goods anyway?
The first thing to falter was my kitchen door handle. A few months ago, it began its gradual decline in service. I now daren’t touch it, for fear it will come off in my hand (sexy). It no longer has a purpose, save the potential for a slapstick moment. If I were a proper man, I’d fix it, but I’m not. Who needs access to white goods anyway?
(...idea for a panel show.)
The kitchen is fast becoming a no-go area. I’m not just referring to how you gain entrance. The oven light is broken. So is the one in the extractor fan. Every so often, a cupboard door comes off its hinges. It’s less a kitchen, more a Crazy Fun House.
I opened my wardrobe the other day, minutes before leaving for a gig, for the top shelf to collapse, bringing the clothes rail down with it. I caught it all as it fell, having cat-like reflexes. It’s surprising how heavy all your clothes are when held collectively. My wife had to rescue me.
To top it all, I switched the bathroom light on last night to watch the shelving unit holding my toiletries fall off the wall and into the bath with a crash. The bathtub was transformed into a shit lucky dip. I now know how Tom Hanks felt in The Money Pit. If my wife morphs into the woman from Cheers, I’ll be suspicious.
