I like it. We buy stuff we don't need to make ourselves feel better. All our houses are full of ****. They're full of **** because when we bought all those items we thought they would improve our lives. They don't. I don't need a coat rack. I don't need a chest of drawers or a microwave or a telly or a tablet or a sofa or a lampshade or any of the **** I own. I need shelter. I need a bed and a blanket. I need food and clean water and something to cook the food on because I can digest it better and take in more calories when it's cooked. I need a coat and a change of clothes so I can wash one while I wear the other. But what I need to make me happy is Sharon. And the best coat rack in the world isn't going to compensate for that. Neither is a Ferrari or the latest computer or any other product you care to mention. This post would probably work better on a Setdi when we're all pissed, rather than a Thursday when it's just me because I've been to a party.
I'd quite like a coat rack that would stay on the ruddy wall. We live in a new build, where the walls are like tissue paper. And then we put too many coats on the rack. And jumpers. And scarves. Sometimes you can't get into the downstairs bathroom because the coats, jumpers and scarves are sticking out too far. And then eventually it gives way. So I take it off, move it a few inches to one side, so the wooden bit covers all the old holes, stick it back on the wall, declare that this time we won't overload it and then six months later do it all over again. I'm running out of wall to drill it back into. This time I've used them special screws that spread out behind the wall and are apparently more secure on walls like ours. I just reckon that when it goes down next time it will bring half the wall down with it.
Think yourself lucky. I live in a red brick 1930s semi. A drill bit is knackered before it gets half way to the depth required to house a brown rawlplug. And that's after half an hour drilling with my whole weight on it. This could easily turn in to 4 Yorkshire men. Electric drill? Aye. You were lucky. We used to get up at half past ten at night, two hours before we went to bed. We had to drill, using our tongues, into toughened diamond for 36 hours a day and pay the drill masters for the privileged. And when we got home, our dad would feel our **** and balls through our trousers, just like Dave Lee Travis, and make us watch old episodes of Jim'll Fix It. If we were lucky. 80s Jim'll Fix It? Aye. Luxury. Etc, etc...
