Monday, 25 June 2012

Wardrobe Malfunction

Mister Husband almost had a rock star moment; as in died before his time in unusual rock star like circumstances.  He was almost killed by an electric guitar.  Let me explain.  In our old house we had those handy built in wardrobes.  I think they are great inventions.  Nice and tidy, nothing sticking out for you to crack your elbow or ankle off of as you walk past.  Mister Husband is not so fond.  He prefers the more bulky, hulking wardrobes that take up space in your bedroom.  We’re compromising at the moment and we don’t have either in our house.    What we use is one of those cloth jobs from Argos, with the flap down the front to hide and protect your little designer numbers.  Designer numbers from Penney’s that is.  I am a walking talking advertisement for Penney’s.  Even the kids are advertising noticeboards.  If they are wearing something that does not have a Penney’s tag on it, it means it was a birthday or Christmas present.  Penney’s rocks!  But back to Mister Husband’s obituary.    The Argos wardrobe was doing its job very nicely, thank you very much. It went above and beyond the call of its humble duty one snowy winter when I needed to escape from a screaming Screecher Creature before I did untold harm.  I sought refuge in the bedroom but my tormentor was closing in so I had to act quickly.  I stood underneath the cloth cover on the front of the wardrobe.   My massively swollen pregnant belly and feet (also massively swollen) were impossible to hide but I chanced it all the same.  I held my breath and the roaring child paused in his noise making for the two seconds it took him to stick his head round the bedroom door to see if I was in there.  How he didn’t put two and two together at the sight of the pregnant shoe wearing wardrobe, I’ll never know.  But I reckon his tender years had something to do with it.  Satisfied I wasn’t in the bedroom, he made good on his exit.  The roaring moved down the hallway and towards the direction of the kitchen but I stayed put.  I think I came out of hiding the following morning.  I bonded with that cloth wardrobe then.  I gazed fondly at it once or twice after and whispered, “Remember the time I hid under there.  When you offered me shelter?  I won’t forget that, I promise you.”  So a year or so later the wardrobe was starting to look slightly worse for wear.  There was a definite tilt to the left and the top was so laden down with stuff (electric guitar, a boxed up GHD with a half-pound of dust resting on top, several trouser belts, discarded clothes hangers, a photo album or two, even a pair of shoes!) I don’t know how it stayed upright for as long as it did.  Then one day a metal pole snapped and everything was held up by the wall of the house.  Getting clothes out and indeed hanging them back up again required expertise known only to those who make safe explosive devices.   We were getting good at it, Mister Husband and I.  It was obviously working because more stuff was being added on a weekly basis.  I felt guilty and remembered my forgotten promise to keep it safe.  Mister Husband used to look at it and say “that wardrobe looks like shite.  I must fix it someday.”  Someday never came and the poor wardrobe gave up.  It literally buckled under the weight of its load and showed Janet Jackson and of late, Madonna, what a real wardrobe malfunction is all about.  I wasn’t there to see it happen, but I imagine there were a couple of loud Titanic like creaks followed by a groan as the last of the metal supports snapped and it tilted forward one last time and collapsed onto the bed.  Mister Husbands side of the bed.  Had he been in it, the electric guitar might have sent him to rock star heaven.  At the very least, the cuts from the shattered lamp on the bedside locker would have required a stitch or two. The wardrobe that had served us so well for 20 months lay in a crumpled accordion pile on the ground, clothes tangled and knotted around each other, my dresses getting it on with Mister Husbands shirts and trousers.  Screecher Creature No. 4 and I stood looking at the mess.  My mouth was halfway through an “oh, fuuuu…….” and Screecher Creature No. 4’s was forming a simple “oohhhhhhh.”  He kept looking at me for an explanation.  I just shrugged, grabbed the hoover and put my trusty friend, the one that hid me from a crying child all those months ago, into the bin.  I am nothing if not fair weathered.  You should see our new wardrobes now.  OMG if I may say so on Mister Husband’s behalf.  Lovely floor to ceiling shelves with hanging space and little squares where those storage boxes from Penney’s’ (€4 a pop!) fit so well.  My very own slide robes without the sliding.  There’s not a bit of space on top to store anything.  I might be able to get a magazine up there but I doubt I would be able to get it back out again.  The electric guitar?  None the worse for its adventure but it’s on the stairway to heaven now.  In other words, resting on the landing.  Where it can’t hurt anyone.  Either by falling on them or by being played.  But I didn’t say that, ok?


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