DIY disasters
I just can't do power tools. They always fly out of control and end up embedded somewhere they shouldn't. I've no idea how I've still got all the appendages I was born with.
Add to that the fact that nothing ends up square, able to support weight or free of sticking-out sharp bits and you can see why I try to avoid DIY.
Tell us of your own DIY disasters.
( , Thu 3 Apr 2008, 17:19)
I just can't do power tools. They always fly out of control and end up embedded somewhere they shouldn't. I've no idea how I've still got all the appendages I was born with.
Add to that the fact that nothing ends up square, able to support weight or free of sticking-out sharp bits and you can see why I try to avoid DIY.
Tell us of your own DIY disasters.
( , Thu 3 Apr 2008, 17:19)
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Since it's Wednesday and this QOTW is progressing with all the speed of a spastic in a magnet factory...
I shall post a tale that is linked, albeit tenuously, to this week's question, but which could not be regarded as distastrous. unless you count the fact that the match in question resulted in a 2-2 draw, when Newcastle should really have won...
***********************************************
A few weeks ago, I took advantage of the fact that there was a Newcastle game on the telly, with a lunchtime kick off, and headed off to the pub to watch it with a mate. It wasn’t a heavy session, I was going to go and have 2-3 pints, then come straight home again – which I did, thinking it wouldn’t be exactly fair on the sweary one if I got utterly spakkered on a Saturday lunchtime. Sure enough and true to my word I was home again not long after 3:30.
However, as is usually the case when having just a couple of lunchtime drinks, a wave of sleepiness came over me. I don’t know why this happens – if I have just the one, I’m fine, and if I carry on drinking through the rest of the afternoon, I’m fine. But 2-3 pints makes me want to sleep for England. On this occasion, I tried to stay conscious, but the sweary one clocked that I was having trouble keeping my eyes open and suggested I have an hours kip. I readily agreed and headed off to the bedroom, asking her to wake me up later – the likelihood being that if she didn’t, I’d sleep for hours, which I didn’t want to do.
An hour and a half later she came and roused me (no, NOT like that), and asked if I’d like a cup of coffee. “Yesh pleashe” I mumbled, still half asleep, but hopeful that an industrial strength caffeine injection would put some life and vitality back into me. I lay there, still drifting in that delightful half asleep fashion, waiting for my steaming mug of hot coffee to wake me from my drowsy stupor. It’s worth mentioning at this point that the sweary one sometimes has a habit of starting something and then completely forgetting what it was she was doing in the first place – if she gets distracted by pretty lights, or sweary junior asks her something, then you can forget all hope of her completing a task within an allotted time frame - a fact she would agree with, I'm sure.
Half an hour later, having drifted in and out of consciousness in five minute cycles, I slung myself out of bed and stomped into the kitchen to make the fucker myself. Two mugs were set up, ready for the boiling of the kettle, so I completed the job, walked into the living room and handed Tourette’s her brew.
“Oh bugger”, she observed, “I came in here, saw that the rugby was getting exciting, and totally forgot what I was doing”…
I still love her to bits, though. But sometimes it’s a good job I’m blessed with an inordinate level of patience.
( , Wed 9 Apr 2008, 10:48, 11 replies)
I shall post a tale that is linked, albeit tenuously, to this week's question, but which could not be regarded as distastrous. unless you count the fact that the match in question resulted in a 2-2 draw, when Newcastle should really have won...
***********************************************
A few weeks ago, I took advantage of the fact that there was a Newcastle game on the telly, with a lunchtime kick off, and headed off to the pub to watch it with a mate. It wasn’t a heavy session, I was going to go and have 2-3 pints, then come straight home again – which I did, thinking it wouldn’t be exactly fair on the sweary one if I got utterly spakkered on a Saturday lunchtime. Sure enough and true to my word I was home again not long after 3:30.
However, as is usually the case when having just a couple of lunchtime drinks, a wave of sleepiness came over me. I don’t know why this happens – if I have just the one, I’m fine, and if I carry on drinking through the rest of the afternoon, I’m fine. But 2-3 pints makes me want to sleep for England. On this occasion, I tried to stay conscious, but the sweary one clocked that I was having trouble keeping my eyes open and suggested I have an hours kip. I readily agreed and headed off to the bedroom, asking her to wake me up later – the likelihood being that if she didn’t, I’d sleep for hours, which I didn’t want to do.
An hour and a half later she came and roused me (no, NOT like that), and asked if I’d like a cup of coffee. “Yesh pleashe” I mumbled, still half asleep, but hopeful that an industrial strength caffeine injection would put some life and vitality back into me. I lay there, still drifting in that delightful half asleep fashion, waiting for my steaming mug of hot coffee to wake me from my drowsy stupor. It’s worth mentioning at this point that the sweary one sometimes has a habit of starting something and then completely forgetting what it was she was doing in the first place – if she gets distracted by pretty lights, or sweary junior asks her something, then you can forget all hope of her completing a task within an allotted time frame - a fact she would agree with, I'm sure.
Half an hour later, having drifted in and out of consciousness in five minute cycles, I slung myself out of bed and stomped into the kitchen to make the fucker myself. Two mugs were set up, ready for the boiling of the kettle, so I completed the job, walked into the living room and handed Tourette’s her brew.
“Oh bugger”, she observed, “I came in here, saw that the rugby was getting exciting, and totally forgot what I was doing”…
I still love her to bits, though. But sometimes it’s a good job I’m blessed with an inordinate level of patience.
( , Wed 9 Apr 2008, 10:48, 11 replies)
DIY coffee means you can have it the way you want
and also, I very much like your Minister of the Interior sig... I have sorted my cushions accordingly.
( , Wed 9 Apr 2008, 10:51, closed)
and also, I very much like your Minister of the Interior sig... I have sorted my cushions accordingly.
( , Wed 9 Apr 2008, 10:51, closed)
"A spastic in a magnet factory"
That was amazing, I could kiss you for it.
( , Wed 9 Apr 2008, 11:03, closed)
That was amazing, I could kiss you for it.
( , Wed 9 Apr 2008, 11:03, closed)
DON'T KISS HIM, DAVROS' GRANDDAD!
you don't know where he's been.
( , Wed 9 Apr 2008, 11:09, closed)
you don't know where he's been.
( , Wed 9 Apr 2008, 11:09, closed)
I take no credit for the heading
Nicked, as it was, from Gene Hunt in Life on Mars - my favourite of his one liners.
( , Wed 9 Apr 2008, 11:30, closed)
Nicked, as it was, from Gene Hunt in Life on Mars - my favourite of his one liners.
( , Wed 9 Apr 2008, 11:30, closed)
@ Edmund
Phwoooooaaaaaaaar - was I and-a-half!
Real men - if they really are injured its a stretcher, not a magic spongey ;o)
( , Wed 9 Apr 2008, 17:10, closed)
Phwoooooaaaaaaaar - was I and-a-half!
Real men - if they really are injured its a stretcher, not a magic spongey ;o)
( , Wed 9 Apr 2008, 17:10, closed)
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