Hammer Time

Six months into the tenancy of what we still call the 'new' flat and the pictures intended for the walls resolutely refuse to hang themselves. Spike seems indifferent to this, I don't think he minds bare walls. But, recently, Charlie said she will ask her father to do it next time he visits. Which basically gave me to the end of the month to buy a hammer.

My paternal Grandfather, Harry (The same grandfather that would ask me how old I was and then ask me to compute the square of that number) told me as a child that it was never too early to start investing in quality tools. Advice I have unsagely ignored for the last three decades. 

My 'man' drawer contains (in decreasing order of manliness) some wood glue (unopened), Basildon Bond lavender writing paper, a sewing kit, and a bag of nylon soft toy stuffing left over from the time I made my niece an alien robot ragdoll. 

No Etsy page for Finnginn just yet.

Nary a picture hook, nor a hammer? - hie thyself to Wickes! (As I imagine their advertising slogan would have stated in the 18th century.) Not straight away of course. First, try the Post Office - it's nearer and picture hooks, at least in my head, are in the crossover between stationery and DIY, sort of hardcore drawing pins. Naturally, the Post Office didn't have any but the nice lady did point me in the direction of Wickes, which didn't have any either but I was able to buy a hammer. 

At home, I placed my new hammer in my man drawer, thus increasing its manliness by around 30%. The pictures sat sulkily on the floor beneath their intended positions gathering dust. Spike avoided my eye. Two weeks to go...