Flat-line...

Sitting down at my desk to write my blog, I was on the point of telling you all that I wouldn't be making an appearance this morning.  But do you know, I am made of stronger stuff than that, and will not allow myself to be beaten by a PIECE OF FLAT-PACK FURNITURE.

Yesterday was Day Three in my plan to bring daughter number two's bedroom to full anonymity, ready to house whoever should need a bed for the night.  The last few things to go in yesteday were a new mattress, a small rug and a new dressing table.  The rug was okay, despite looking like a day old ham sandwich with its curly corners, and I'll come back to the mattress later, but the dressing table... oh dear God.

Two hours it said on the packaging, although it didn't say whether these were two consecutive ones, or one on a Wednesday afternoon and another the following day, with 18 hours spent between the two scavenging around the floor for daft looking screws and trying to work out which way round the drawers went.  Anyway, three and three quarter hours later, I had finally constructed the new dressing table.  I had said to the husband that this would replace my rather tatty one, which would head down to the new guest room.  

However, as I pushed the final drawer in (having taken out sixteen screws which I had put in the wrong way round) I couldn't face looking at it for another minute.  I hated it for the blisters it had given me, and the Dowager's Hump I was  sporting having been stooped over it all afternoon. So it was slid across the landing to daughter number two's old room, where it will reside forever more.

Now.  The mattress.  Having spent the occasional night sleeping in daughter number two's bed (when I get a migraine, I need a quiet room) I know full well how uncomfortable that mattress is.  So in keeping with the new feel of the room, I ordered a mattress which was delivered yesterday morning.

It was rolled up really tightly and vacuumed sealed, so basically just a large white pocket sprung sausage which weighed more than I expected.  Hoisting it up the stairs, one step at a time, my face was as blue as the air as breathing wasn't an option.  Laying it on the bed slats, I picked the scissors up and started to cut through the industrial strength cling film.  It had said on the outside that the full potential of the mattress would not be revealed for forty eight hours, so I envisaged a slow unfurling of the mattress as it settled into its new abode.

What I wasn't expecting was for the bloody thing to explode like a giant firecracker almost taking my eye out as it laid itself out.  And it was upside down so I had to tip it over.  I have a question at this stage. Why the hell did mattress manufacturers stop putting handles on the side? Trying to grip the mattress wiped out two nails, so yet again, the two dogs learnt some new choice words.

But by 9.00 last night it was all done.  The perfectly neutral room for anyone who wants to visit.  Mrs S called me to say how proud she was that I'd managed to do it.

I'm proud too....but completely broken by that dressing table...