The pram, a fairly simple contraption to assemble one would have thought. As it is basically a basket with wheels, I instantly chose to disregard the several instruction guides provided, as ‘I am man, and man make fire.’ Here’s one I made earlier.
I don’t speak for all males, though I tend to abide by certain rules in life. Number one being, the shopping bag challenge. Whether it is one bag or thirty seven, every bag must be carried past the threshold in one singular effort. It is irrelevant how you transport the produce, and in what state the produce arrives. Remember it is important to utilise layers and pockets, so don’t be afraid of wearing baggy underpants for miscellaneous fruit and veg.
Number two, instructions. If one decides to begin the assembly without first acknowledging the instructions, one cannot refer back to them under any circumstances. Although this WILL save hours of swearing, anger, and damage to the item, it is the ultimate disgrace to all men across the planet. I once built a baby car (pictured) for my nephew without instructions. Going forward, it crawled at about 1mph. However backwards, it went faster than a toupee in a hurricane.
Number three, possibly the most frowned upon. Whenever, and wherever Dirty dancing’s ‘Time of my life’ is played, one must run frantically into the arms of another in hope they will lift one heroically into the air for all to see. This proves most interesting when you’re in Iceland on your own, and the only other person within range is a 92 year old lady picking up a pack of Crocodile burgers.
So anyway a pram arrived, all singing and dancing with Robyn’s approval. I got home from work a little bit later, so I skipped most of the assembly part which was great. Winner winner, everything seemed to be fine, until we realised that the car seat was broken. This of course pushed Robyn over the edge, and the poor girl began to lose her shit. I usually carry a pocket full of jellybeans as a distraction in case of emergencies, but sadly I’d ran out.
As she sat sobbing hysterically into a bowl of Super noodles, I found a little postcard in the box that read ‘Any problems? Please give us a call, we are dedicated to helping our customers’. So I called the number and a lady called Barbara from Wales answered. Reluctantly she took my name, sighed down the phone, and told me to piss off. Long story short, after several hours of abusive phone tennis, I gave up and took the decision to return it. Out of spite, I thought it would be clever to use up three rolls of industrial tape that we had left from Christmas in an attempt to hinder Babs and her gang of merry muppets.
‘I’d like to see you try and get into this box now Barbara! Fuck you Barbara!’ I proclaimed as the rest of the family stood admiring my commitment. We soon ran out of tape, the room applauded and we shook our fists in the air collectively at Barbara and her shoddy customer service. These celebrations were however short lived, when I failed to notice a set of wheels under the table, outside the box. I took a deep breath, howled aggressively at the moon, and began unwrapping the several hundred layers of celotape before me.
Eventually, it was returned so we ordered a new one. Same make, great pram, no complaints. One step closer to the little man’s debut, and I think we might just have everything we need.
Partner update: Groaning on the couch hugging a packet of Rennies in a feeble attempt to get out of water aerobics tomorrow.
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