Yesterday - at last - the shamefully shoddy old spare bed departed this life and found an eternal resting place at the local municipal tip.
All that needed to be done now was for the various bits of the new-to-us one to be assembled. The big sections had been making their presence felt for several days; sides, head, end, propped up on the landing, pending. TICK. We all knew where they were, especially our big toes. Then there were some slats. I'd seen them in a bag. The Lodger (whose bed it had been when he was in unfurnished accommodation before moving in with us) had stowed those in his wardrobe. TICK.
The Husband got weaving. After a matter of minutes (it could have been longer, but I was engrossed in... OK, I admit it, I was watching TV) the frame was looking good, convincing even. I was called in to admire it. The slats looked worryingly warped to me, but The Men assured me they were intended to be like that, as it meant the bed would be sprung if they were laid curve uppermost. Dur. It's not just some Jobs people need Willies for (see yesterday), they are also useful for Knowing Certain Things.
"How do they stay in position, those slats?" Fixings, apparently. The Lodger had the fixings in another carrier bag. TICK. The Husband again fell to being industrious and I went back to my programme, now partly also day-dreaming about crisp new Egyptian cotton bed linen (could I, should I, afford it?) and taking a mental inventory of what we already had that might even be washed and aired. My reverie was disturbed by The Lodger appearing at the door asking had I seen another carrier bag containing two wooden blocks and some more fixings which he'd put down on the dining room table, oh! about ten days ago.
I had no idea what he was talking about, had seen nothing answering any such description, and said as much. The Husband appeared alongside him, saying he couldn't get any further on with the bed without the extra bits. I suggested - very levelly - that they both have a Good Look Round. In the dining room for starters. And work outwards from there.
You will see from the heading of this blog that I resent tidying up "stuff and things which aren't even MINE" to the extent that I seldom, if ever, do it nowadays. My only child (The Daughter) is getting on for thirty now, and I rarely picked up after her even when she was a toddler. She put her own toys back in the toy cupboard, it was part of the game, or at least "helped mummy". So I have quite high expectations of two grown adult males to locate their own possessions, preferably having already stowed them behind a cupboard door, or on a shelf, or in a drawer, THEMSELVES. It's not unreasonable is it? Especially if it's a vital part of a large piece of almost brand-new furniture.
Apparently it is unreasonable. UNTICK. CROSS, even, or at least a gentle seethe though lightly clenched teeth. However, I didn't break off from my vitally important TV/high-thread-count-linen-day-dreaming activities to help them look. Points to me for not being a martyr.
But even bigger - HUGE - points to The Husband for using a few good old-fashioned screws for the missing plastic fixings, and two piles of left-over holiday reading paperback books of the right height, to replace the blocks meant to support the long piece of wood running down the middle of the base. And putting the mattress on. And lowering his reassuring bulk onto the completed item, even jiggling up and down a bit to show that he'd cobbled it together sufficiently for the bed to be safely used until the errant bag of bits showed up.
Once you know how to make-do-and-mend, the skill never deserts you. It's a survival mechanism The Husband has in spades, and I love him for it as well as all the other things.