JUST A DUMB CRYING WOMAN.

AUDIO QUACK. SKIP INTRODUCTION 1:38

One day, I looked up and noticed patches of paint bubbling off the ceiling in my hallway.

I asked the man upstairs if he could check his pipes.

He said, “All the pipes I can see are bone dry.”

I didn’t want to push it too much, so I drew pencil marks around the stain and told him I’d let him know if it got any worse. Six months later, it had got worse. I asked the man upstairs if he was sure his pipes were ‘bone dry?’ He eventually came down to see what the fuss was about. He took one look at the, now, brown stain on my ceiling and began to freak.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he said, accusingly.

Oh, so this is my fault.

“I did. But…”

“Do you know what the problem is?”

“Erm, your pipe is leaking?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“It’s the pencil marks. We need to rub them out.”

“Could you just get your pipes checked?”

And then he said, “When the insurance people come, could you play the dumb woman? You know, act like you didn’t notice the stain until now?”

I looked at him.

I looked at the big brown stain the size of Russia on my ceiling.

And back at him again.

“Could you please just get your pipes checked?”

He left, agreeing to get a plumber in, but he wanted to return to mine the next day with his tools. I had a vision of him rubbing out my wall with an eraser, and me, somehow, ending up in prison for insurance fraud. So, I told him I would fix my own ceiling without any cost to him, but could he please just get his pipes checked?

A week later, he told me his waste pipe wasn’t as ‘bone dry’ as originally thought, but it was now fixed.

Well, that was fun.

I got my ceiling replastered and painted, and then thought, why stop there? Why not paint the whole place? I began with my bathroom (read here) and then moved on to my bedroom, kitchen, and living room.

I tried to rehang the artwork, but after the giant map fell on me for the fourth time, I realised I needed help.

Cue, ‘The Hang Man. ’

He was a quirky artist chap who came wearing a flat cap and carrying a shiny suitcase of tools.

“It’s not the most sophisticated collection you will ever hang,” I said apologetically as we stood before a framed illustration of Louis Theroux and a cartoon drawing of a bra.

“Leave it with me.”

He got to work. Radio 4 was murmuring in the background. There was some drilling and banging, and after three hours, he revealed what he had done. Somehow, he managed to make my walls look like something from Pinterest.

“Oh, wow. Thank you, Hang Man,” I said, gazing at my new wall.

“Just doing my job,” he said, putting his flat cap back on. He packed up his bag and drove off into the night.

My next part of the makeover was the sofa.

The challenge with sofa shopping is that there are many shapes, colours, and materials, and it’s hard to determine which one represents you best. Are you a cream L-shaped type? Or a moss green slouchy type?

For some reason, bachelors LOVE a grey sofa. And the grey doesn’t stop there; he will have grey bedding, towels, and even plates.

“Nice home, Stephen. It’s like stepping into a little rain cloud.“

I wasn’t going to go grey. I first thought I would go for a brown, torn, beaten leather sofa. I imagined that this would make me seem intelligent to my visitors. But then I thought about the reality of lying on leather when I was having an off day, and it didn’t seem so appealing. Also, the cost of a beaten leather sofa was more than I could bear, no matter how intellectual it would make me appear.

In the end, pink inspired me. I know, it’s a risky colour. It can give the impression that you dot your I’s with hearts and write in a diary every night.

“Dear Diary.

Stephen is still too busy to talk to me. (Grrr). I have called him five times. His mother, I’ve called twice. And his boss, three times. 😦 They all tell me he’s got a lot on his plate. I JUST WANT TO SMASH THAT PLATE!! (LOL!!!)

So, it wasn’t that kind of pink. More of a coral pink.

I found the perfect sofa in an outlet store. It had been a showroom sofa for most of its life. I liked the idea of it retiring in my flat, like a showgirl in Vegas who had done her work.

The day of the sofa delivery came, and I cleared the space, ready for the arrival. Then my phone started ringing.

“Hi. We’re delivering your sofa, could you please give us the full address? All we have is the street and postcode.”

“That’s strange,” I said. “Sorry. Of course, it’s -“

Suddenly, a voice spoke up in the background. “Like, what are we supposed to do? Guess the address like we’re some sort of miracle workers?!”

“No…” I said.

It was as if this voice thought I had purposely only given the road and postcode because I loved playing a game of ‘Yes or No‘ with deliveries.

Is it a terrace house?

No.

Does it have an outdoor space?

Yes.

I gave my full address, with the man still grunting away in the background.

“I can stand outside and wave?”

“No,” he barked. And hung up.

I gulped. I had a bad feeling that whoever this man was would not appreciate the two flights of stairs coming his way.

Despite my offer being refused, I went outside anyway. At the front of the apartment block, I met one of the delivery men.

“Mary?” he said, smiling.

“That’s me!”

Behind the smiling man was a bald man the size of a telephone box. He was wheeling my sofa on a trolley. He had frown lines deeper than the Grand Canyon. I took a deep breath and smiled. Sure, he sounded angry on the phone and looked angry now, but hopefully, if I were super friendly, he would soften up – like putting a block of butter in the microwave.

“Hello!” I said enthusiastically, as if I was greeting him into a party. He didn’t say anything back. I noticed he had accessorised his outfit with a chain necklace that was thick enough to lock up a bike… or a person.

We entered my apartment block, and the stairs were revealed. Predictably, he was not happy about this.

“We will have to take the cushions off if we’re taking it up six flights of stairs,” he growled.

I chimed in. “It’s, um, not six flights, it’s just…”

“JUST!” He rolled his big sausage head. “DON’T YOU DARE SAY JUST. THAT’S THE WOMAN’S CURSE WORD. IT’S JUST…. IT’S JUST…”

“Um. I was just saying it’s two flights of stairs.”

“YES!” He raised his voice and came closer. So, he was kind of really loud now. “BUT THERE ARE SIX PARTS TO THE STAIRCASE!” (I didn’t understand his logic). “RIGHT. THE CUSHION ARE COMING OFF BECAUSE I’M NOT GOING TO KILL MYSELF, LIFTING THIS UP THERE. OK?”

I felt a lump form in my throat and said a quiet “Ok.” My eyes began to warm up. I wasn’t upset that he was removing the cushions. I didn’t care about the cushions. I just hated being yelled at by Shrek.

He sliced open the wrapper to see the sofa and growled.

“Pink?”

“Mmhmm,” I whimpered.

He gave me and his partner the cushions, and we walked up the stairs together. Out of earshot, the partner apologised.

“I’m sorry. He shouldn’t be talking to customers like that. So that you know, I am going to report him.”

“It’s ok,” I said and sniffed.

Maybe it was the cardio of carrying the sofa up the stairs, or because my face resembled the inside of a strawberry, but by the time the sofa was in my living room, the monster man had softened a little. He asked if I wanted to keep the temp legs. I told him he could keep them because I’d lose them. He cracked a small laugh, and I smiled through tears. It wasn’t exactly the start of a beautiful friendship, but it was better than being yelled at.