THE Farmer-type has just called me rude and implied that not only am I childish but dim as well.

This outburst has come after he single-handedly moved a very large wardrobe (it took three men to move it the first time around), built a shelf, hung a television on the wall and sorted out various bits of errant cabling in one hour flat.

Oh, I forgot to mention that he also fixed a lamp and put all my garden furniture in the shed. And he cleaned up the dust.

Superhero, anyone?

Anyway, I found myself a spare corner to nestle into to write this week’s column in between admiring the Farmer’s rippling muscles (his arms are kind of massive) when he started to ask me to bring him various items, like a hammer and nails and things like that.

I was just getting creative but was forced to stop to meet his never-ending demands.

Reluctantly, I stopped because I thought it was a bit ungrateful of me to bemoan the fact that he had interrupted the most brilliant sentence I have probably ever formed because he was doing things that would otherwise Never Get Done.

So I traipsed downstairs and located my hammer in the back of a rickety drawer along with my heart-shaped tin, which used to contain nails, but now holds couple of tacks, a staple, three marbles and an old, dusty lip gloss tube, I also found my screwdriver, which is one of those teeny tiny ones from last year’s Christmas cracker and the smallest measuring tape in the world, because my real one has disappeared.

He looked at me with disbelief when I handed him my findings.

And when he switched on the Sitting Tenant’s (Dad’s) drill, which admittedly is as powerful as a very old electric toothbrush, he looked at me in despair.

He went home to collect his own.

The next hour was probably on a scale of Quite Bad.

He shook his head when I measured the wardrobe with arms (I was eight inches out apparently) and he showed me no kindness when I WEPT because I couldn’t lift up one end of the wardrobe (it weighs about two tonnes).

All I wanted to do was have a nice little nap or something.

As we were drinking tea, the Farmer started to talk about shelving units.

“Do you think we can talk about something other than shelves now?” I pleaded, after listening attentively for about an hour. He raised his voice a bit and accused me of being rude before launching into a tirade.

“How can you expect to buy the things you need if you don’t discuss it?”

“But I don’t want to talk about shelves.”

“Well then you can do everything by yourself and I won’t help you at all.”

I don’t understand what part of “I am not terribly good with the practicalities of life and would rather pick flowers” that he doesn’t understand?

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