Last weekend I had the most ridiculous Saturday night. Seriously. My younger self would have shed tears of pity and shame. It had been one of those weeks where things started falling apart around the house. A lock on a cupboard had broken. A shoe sole had started peeling away. A spice rack needed putting up. (Oh all right, it’s not exactly something that’s damaged, but rifling through 20 different spices to find the right one isn’t my idea of fun, particularly when they start skidding offthe shelf.) And suddenly, at 7pm, I got the urge to sort them all out. I’m not sure if there’s a clinical name for this, but I’m convinced it’s not normal. Surely I should be out at the pub or watching something trashy on TV? I’m pretty certain Saturday nights aren’t meant to be dedicated to DIY.
”I’m pret ty certain Saturday nights aren’t meant to be dedicated to DIY.”