As seen on TV

Now, you know I love Herself dearly, but there are times... Today I was tiling again. The floor of our porch needed some treatment so we decided on some tiles which we accidentally found in Woodies and which have now all gone down, cut bits and all, over the past two weekends. I need to grout them tomorrow. My knees are already complaining and I haven't even confirmed to them that the date with the hard floor is still on.

So I was working in my slippers today. I thought:

"If one of those tiles slips off the work bench and skewers your toe, it's your own fault, you know?"

No such skewering took place. I reassured myself that the lack of work boots was a minor bullet dodging event that I would not repeat. Next time, it's boots all the way. Anyhow, I now didn't have to look for my slippers. Sure, weren't they on my feet?

Herself arrived in from the shops, looking despondant.

"I only bought two new tablecloths, a decorative table for the porch, a new salad bowl and a bunch of stuff I'm not going to tell you about," she said, miserably. "There was nothing in the shops."

One of the soon-to-be-revealed items was a set of three LED lights for awkwards spots. You put in a load of batteries and give the thing a push and it lights up under your stairs or in your toolbox or in your pocket or anywhere else you need a light.

"One will do for when you want to adjust the gas boiler," Herself said.

I didn't doubt her, and after tidying up after my tile laying, folding up the work bench and putting it neatly, if temporarily, under the stairs, and putting aside a roasting tin from the oven which had mysteriously appeared in the way, I put in batteries and fumbled with self-adhesive strips in the semi-darkness by the boiler. Herself carried on cooking Saturday lunch.

There was a gut-wreching CLANG!

"Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!" I hinted, my head stuck under the stairs in an LED dazzle as the thing flew to bits and disappeared into a now well-lit hidey hole. The fact that the heating system was now clearly and visibly on 1.5 bar was of no comfort to me.

"What's wrong?" Herself asked from the kitchen.

"I'm crippled!" I roared.

"From what?" she asked, poking her head around the door.

"From this feckin' roasting tin!" I said, pointing. A second tin (not the one I had dilligently moved out of the way, of course), had been hung, by persons unknown, on the leg of my folded up workbench and had neatly guillotined the arch of my foot while I played silly buggers with the LED light. Oh, Jesus! It hurt!

From the kitchen came the sound of muffled giggling. I was not amused:

"Feck you and your LED lights! My bleedin' foot!"

I swear, the next time she brings home something that needs gutting, hanging, skinning, assembly, switching on or putting out... SHE CAN FECKIN' WELL DO IT HERSELF!

My poor foot...!