I got a new desk because my old one broke from me banging my head against it. That makes three this year. Three desks, not three heads.
My head is holding out fine. I could probably hammer out another couple of columns before a doctor has to fish out a pen light and check if my pupils are the same size. The desks are the issue.
They have to be. I follow the assembly instructions to the letter. I put the screwy pieces into the screwy holes and slot the square pieces into the square holes and chuck the triangular pieces wherever they need to be chucked.
They are in a box in the basement. That is where I keep the rest of the bits and bobs that I don’t need. Until, of course, I need one.
Then I go down to the basement, find the box, rummage for the piece I want, try to jam it into a trapezoidal hole (who designs these things?) and end up buying a new desk. They keep giving out on me. I’ve had longer working relationships with gnats.
Well, last week I got fed up with being irritated. Or maybe it is the other way around. And I bought a metal-reinforced desk.
This bad boy better be the bomb, because it sure blew a hole in my wallet. Today it arrived. I opened the box and took a peek.
As an experienced builder, I immediately spied that there were many desk-y-looking parts inside. There was also an instruction manual that was about 27 pages long. None of them were in English.
This did not daunt me. As I have often mentioned, I can be chilled steel, except for when I’m nervous. W.