I walk into the kitchen with a hammer in one hand, a screwdriver in the other, and a bad look upon my face. My wife looks up from her needlework.
“Success?” she says.
“No,” I say. “Failure. Abject failure.”
“Oh dear,” she says. “What happened?”
“I can’t talk about it,” I say.
“You can’t talk about putting up a loo roll holder?” she says.
Actually, I would like to explain in excruciating detail what went wrong with this loo roll holder, chosen by my wife for its sleek design and deceptive floating appearance. What even holds it up, the casual observer would ask. I see no mounting screws!
And I would say, look here: it slides snugly on to this small, hidden block of machined steel, which is itself held to the wall by the two screws provided. Unfortunately, these screws are not long enough to be accommodated by a standard hollow wall fixing, and the block of steel has been crafted to such fine tolerances that no other screws in my extensive collection will fit in its holes.
An astounding lack of foresight on the part of the manufacturer, the casual observer would cry.
“The bottom line is,” I say to my wife, “we can’t have that loo roll holder on that wall. It’s not suitable.”
“And I suppose that’s my fault, is it?” she says.
“You want the truth,” I say. “But you can’t handle the truth.”
“What about the towel hook?” she says.
“The towel hook is fixed,” I say.
“Well that’s something,” she says.
“No it isn’t,” I say. “It’s just nothing.”
It is 35 degrees outside on the day that my wife has set aside to address all our problematic wall-mountings. It promises to get even hotter, with two pictures still to hang. And now I must bear the additional burden of an early failure.
“You’re not going to let a loo roll holder ruin the whole day, are you?” my wife says.
“Actually, I think I might,” I say.
I carry my despair from room to room for a while before collapsing on to a sofa. I slump there, chin on chest, staring at my phone, until the despair and the heat become indistinguishable. Either way, I think, I’m here all afternoon.
Half an hour later my wife comes into the room with her arms held away from her sides, palms up, thumbs and ring fingers touching: she is clearly modelling something.
“What?” I say. “Is that a new dress?”
“The dress is not new,” she says, lifting her chin. I squint. Thunder rumbles in the distance.
“Have you been applying fake tan?” I say.
“Correct!” she says. “It’s good, isn’t it?”
“Very even,” I say. “Like stain.”
My wife walks over to where I am sitting, bends slightly and pokes me gently in the stomach – a wholly uncharacteristic display of affection.
“What?” I say. She pokes me again. The flesh sinks under her touch, and then slowly resumes its former shape.
“Are you saying I’m fat?” I say. She nods and laughs.
“Why is that funny?”
“Because you’ve never been fat before!” she says. This is true. I’ve been the same weight – 11 stone – for all my adult life. For 35 years, no changes to my diet or my lifestyle have caused me to lose or gain a pound. I’ve tried not to be smug about it, because I know it pisses people off, but I was quietly pleased it was something I never had to think about, until now. Lockdown has transformed me into a man of dough.
My wife pokes my stomach again.
“Stop doing that,” I say. But I can see it delights her.
“Will you hang my pictures once it cools down?” she says.
“It’s never going to cool down,” I say. “We might as well do it now.” I feel my damp shirt catch on my belly as I stand.
“Thank you,” she says.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
I drag my newly repulsive form off in search of the last place I saw the drill, stopping only to pull a Magnum out of the freezer on the way.
