Our new home has heralded an influx of new, shiny and bright furniture. Out with the old maroon, slouchy sharehouse couch that would have scared any forensic detective, and in with with the new grey, adjustable and comfy modular that I’m barely letting people sit on just yet. Whilst I was loving life with all the deliveries and the instant gratification of chilling bottles of sparkling and sitting down for dinner at the dining table, the inevitable flat packs began to arrive.
I have only had one experience with flat pack furniture, and it was just a tiny shelf unit to wedge into a spare spot in the bathroom because the drawers didn’t work. It wasn’t pretty, nor a feature piece and after screwing and unscrewing and screwing and unscrewing the same sections repeatedly, I got it right but it was not my proudest moment.
So what happens when your carefully selected outdoor setting unexpectedly arrives in seven dusty boxes with not so much of a ‘good luck’ from the delivery guy? You rant and rave and threaten to make a fiery call to the establishment, and then you find the allen key amongst the styrofoam and wadding and get to work.
It took all arvo to put together the 6 chairs and the outdoor table, but it was some pretty great and funny bonding time for my partner and I. And we celebrated Valentine’s Day by cooking a ripper bbq and sitting down at our work of art in our little cottage garden. Perfection!