This evening, in a falsetto shout, I threatened to set fire to our back room curtains. This is because I hate the way they slide off the rail at the end every time I draw them open or shut.
Mr Anna May is the chief curtain track fixer and hanger in our house and he hasn’t improved at the task in 35, perilous overhead, years.
The first pair he put up as a newlywed fell down, and the latest ones do the same. He says it doesn’t matter and that curtains bore him.
If I complain about the calamitous state of our curtains my husband plays jeopardy music on his tin whistle and drowns me out. When he does that I have the urge to speed hammer the tin whistle into his belly button.
In my bedroom twice a day I am hit on the head by a knob. This is because said knob is not properly screwed to the end of the curtain pole so drops off each time I open or close the curtains.
I have become quite adept at dodging the knob and must look nifty as I am doing it because a chap whose garden backs on to ours enquired, at a recent neighbourhood watch meeting, whether I was a breakdancer.
I know if I want a job done properly I should do it myself but I would get greater satisfaction from not having to do the frickin’ job myself and still getting it done properly.
Blinds might be easier, I know, but I am blind-averse since my dog got his head stuck in a friend’s venetian and ended up pulling it off the window and running around her front room wearing it and smashing up her artfully displayed Wedgewood collection.
We haven’t really made up since that episode. I think it might be because I sent Mr Anna May around to repair the damage.
