Toy Box
As the nipper started to grow he managed to acquire toys in much the same manner as Imelda Marcos acquired footwear. This presented a problem space-wise, as there were only certain parts of our cosy three-bed house that we could secrete these toys away to. We needed some form of storage. Then my (now ex-) wife hit upon the idea of a toy box.

This presented her with yet another opportunity to peruse both the IKEA and Argos catalogues, dog-earing the relevant pages, and attempting to gain my interest by saying things such as "Ooo, this one looks nice and it's only £19.99". Sloblocks, thought I. Why should I have to fork out nineteen pounds and ninety-nine pence of my hard-earned sterling monies in order to secure an item that would allow me to hide away my son's toys when he wasn't playing with them in order to give my house a semblance of orderliness?

So what alternative did I have? Well, I knew we had some wood in the garage. I was going to be brave. I was going to be bold. I was going to attempt to make something...

Now, let me make it clear that DIY was not my forte. I seem to have sprung from a generation where DIY was as popular as Ian Huntley at a kindergarten, which was strange as the previous generation, my Dad included, would try their hands at anything home-improvement related. But to me, this was going to be my chance to prove my worth. Indeed more to prove to myself that I could actually do it. I had the tools for the job. I was going to create.

Things didn't get off to a great start when I made my first attempt at sawing into one of the pieces of wood and somehow managed to elbow myself in the Beadles. But unperturbed, I soldiered on. I had managed to put two sides together when disaster struck. Whilst holding part of the wood steady in the Work-Mate I managed to saw into my finger. Blood immediately began to spurt forth from the incision in the manner of a Sam Peckinpah film. I rushed inside the house, effusing a tirade of expletives. My wife, a nurse, took one look at my state of woe and advised a swift trip to A+E.

After a brief wait (God bless triage) I was seen to, the wound cleaned and bandaged and I was sent on my way. An appointment made to see a consultant a week later at the same hospital to check on the healing progress of the wound.

So a week passed and I made my way back to the hospital. I waited my turn and was called into see the consultant, an Asian gentleman. It was only when I noticed his name badge that it dawned on me who he was...only bloody former Indian spin bowler NARENDRA HIRWANI!!!.

Well, the state of my finger was relegated to the background as the conversation naturally leaned towards cricket, me being a cricketing fan. I asked him all about his debut Test against the West Indies where he took 16 for 137, with eight-fors in both innings. He seem pleasantly surprised with my knowledge on the subject although came across as rather modest about his achievements. I, however, was becoming rather carried away and said "when you took the wicket of Desmond Haynes LBW in the second innings, did the umpire raise his finger like this?" and stood up and raised my index finger.

As I did this, the fresh scab on the wound ruptured, spraying blood over his desk and onto his shirt. Stony-faced, he re-bandaged me, gave me a re-appointment date then asked me to leave. I didn't go back, and the finger healed.

And we ended up going out and buying a toy storage box...
(SonoraAeroClub "OH SWEET HELEN OF BALLS!", Sat 5 Dec 2009, 18:18, Reply)