There is only one type of husband that is worse than the DIY-inapt type and that is the DIY-inapt that thinks of himself as apt. My life is cursed with such presence and although I realise that some of you will think I am lucky just on the basis of having someone around who cares enough about the house in order to suggest a Sunday trip to B&Q, believe me it does not feel this way when that rare occurrence takes place.
If you want to ruin my day, you take me to B&Q. Even in my very best, most enthusiastic, Elle Decoration-wielding moments, my happiness fritters away as soon as my nostrils catch even a faint whiff of B&Q smell. Going around it with a cart whose wheels are permanently stuck (why? I don't know, they just always are) just adds to the unnecessary stress. Today was such a day, when the afternoon was well and truly spoilt by half an hour in this most hateful place, where only metallic paint tins are remotely interesting and where some truly sad people (like my dad) seems to get truly excited like they have just hit the Harrods sale. Now that the paint has made it home, we shall have to see what the DIY-inapt-that-thinks-of-himself-as-apt is going to do with it.
