Working from home: Day 10,000 (or whatever the fuck day it is now).
Peaceful, quiet, sunny, warm - birdsong and the occasional whingeing DTwatCat wanting me to go into the garden and entertain him with a pointy stick to chase.
DP eventually emerges from upstairs five hours after I do (which is fine by me, it means I don't have to endure shite like reruns of Nightrider and the fucking A Team). Makes a cup of tea. Great.
I'd vaguely noticed things had been moved in the region of the Cupboard under the Stairs, but as I haven't really seen him move much over his furlough period, I assumed he'd dropped something when I heard some scrabbling noises.
Oh, how wrong I was. He had been in The Cupboard - looking for stuff.
I spent ages carefully organising and stacking DIY items in there. They're my tools. My million rawl plugs, bolts, screws, brackets, saws - I do the flatpacks. I do the plumbing repairs. I do all of it. Not because he doesn't want to, but because I'm good at it and like fixing, building, mending and improving things. He gets enlisted when some grunt work is required. Very simple, unambiguous instructions - this is a person who, for all his intelligence and degrees, if you tell him 'look to your right', will inevitably start spinning round anticlockwise and fall to his left. He is definitely spatially disabled.
He's come out and said 'I finally found them!'.
What?
'Shelf brackets! They were really hard to find!'
Right hand side, three inches to the right of the door behind the case that holds all the shelf fixings and in front of the drill cases?
'Oh. You knew where they were?'
'Well, I did put them there in the first place' because I don't believe in rummaging around for three hours and spent a lot of time and effort in planning how my DIY stuff was stored so I can go there and instantly lay my hands upon anything I need. 'Why?'
'No reason' and he wanders off.
Ten minutes later, I hear thumping sounds. He's only decided that today is the day he is going to fit a shelf over the bathroom door to put baskets on place the toiletroll stash.
Very, very calmly, I try to find out whether he's considered that the planks need to be cut to size. And remind him that the tenon saw would be the appropriate choice (rather than the pruning one from my equally well organised gardening equipment). And that the workbench currently lives in the shed of a thousand spiders and he'd better not be planning to continue sawing directly onto the kitchen table if he wishes to live until teatime.
Oh, and the wood needs to be painted to increase its lifespan in a humid environment. And wood screws are in the case marked Wood Screws, rather than the short brass ones meant for picture hanging.
It's all in hand, apparently. He's just going to put it up temporarily and then take it down to paint it.
He's already snapped my shovel handle two days ago. And I've just reset some of the slabs on the patio, so I can't hide the body do any more digging.
Please, make it stop.