We know that the garage is a place of paintpots and mystery. Blackwatertown’s dad had a gas mask; mine had an old phone and an ancient radio.
A quick scan of the contents of our garage revealed: huge bags of wood for the new stove, tumble dryer, freezer, chalkboard, jam jars, vases, playhouse, play kitchen, buckets, mops, hulahoops, paint, tiles, car windscreen wash, teeny chairs, wine, beer; garden parasol, table and chairs, all barely used; bikes, hurls, helmets, footballs, WD40, carpet, wellies, curtain poles, football memorabilia, buckets, spades, fishing nets, strimmer, spade, toy prams, ‘happy meal’ balloon. I even rediscovered the swingball.
And then there’s the huge pine fire surround and the ornate iron insert thing (collectively known as the fireplace). The monstrosity, finally removed from the living room and retired to the garage until somebody, anybody, comes to take it away. (Would you like a fireplace? Anyone?) Contrary to all logic I think the fireplace may have developed feelings. Or maybe I’m just clumsy.
You’ll have gathered that possibly the most important thing in the garage is the
freezer wine. Because of all the recent chaos, the route to the wine now involves sqeezing past the freezer, wiggling by the wood, stretching round past the recycling boxes and reaching it down. The ‘down’ bit of these directions is into a gap framed by boxes, plastic chairs and the sharp edges of the fireplace. To return, this whole manoeuvre has to be repeated in reverse. As in, backwards.
The pain of banging a shoulder blade into the aforementioned sharp edges would have been aleviated if I’d drunk the wine first. Instead I moved gingerly for days, like when the car had been squashed by a lorry and I’d had whiplash. Ouch, and again ouch (feel free to insert stronger words of your choosing). Fireplace, you may have won that battle, but it looks like I’m finally winning the war.
However, I may send Spurs Fan for the wine in the meantime.