I should never have married a man who until the age of 7 had stars on the bottom of each left shoe so he could tell which was which.
I'm just offloading here, as opposed to tearing off his leg and beating him to death with the mushy stump.
He's sealing off a chimney in one of the bedrooms, leaving an open square hearth.
He's sawing plasterboard directly onto a thick pile rug. The plasterboard is jutting out of the fireplace and into the room by, ooh, at least two inches. He's already fixed it, probably Pritt-sticked it, into place, and he proposes to lop off 'what he can' pf the excess with a Stanley blade. There is talk of popping into to town to pick up some stuff to "even it out at the back where it's not quite level".
His response to my less than enthusiastic inspection?
"I cut it to size, I don't know what happened. You can always use filler on the front to neaten it up if it bothers you, don't stress".
He has made this house the spiritual home of Polyfilla.
- that's a picture of me, with my twitch