'If we could get rid of the fat machine,' I say, 'I could move the filing cabinet into that corner and be able to get to the built in cupboard without having to move the clothes airer and the swivel chair.'
Thursday, July 28, 2016
Now that life is a bit calmer again, I have begun to go through some of Dad's folders of articles, notes etc that are presently stacked up in what I laughingly call the study. I say laughingly because 'cupboard' would be a more accurate description. The room itself is undeniably tiny and to make matters worse, is crammed with two bookcases, a filing cabinet, desk and swivel chair, clothes airer and Keith's fat machine. Yes, you read that correctly. This is a large machine which he bought online in one of his crazier moments, in the (vain) hope that using it would break down excess fat. It doesn't and he hasn't even looked at it for about three years. But every time I suggest getting rid of it to some other
idiot interested person, he demurs. Persuading him to dispose of anything - clothes, shoes, holey socks - is like pulling teeth, so if I think I can get away with it, I do occasionally sneak things out when he's not looking. Generally, this works quite well, but this time, I need to be more upfront.