torture

Last month while I was trying to rest my particularly sore back, Lisa rushed into the bedroom to proclaim a disaster of huge proportions in our kitchen.

crafted by Beelzebub himself

Now, I'm used to all sorts of recipe-based maladies but what met my gaze was one of the doors to the under-sink cupboard hanging on by a thread.

Somehow, a pin in the hinge holding it all together had snapped.

This necessitated a trip to a local DIY store to buy a new hinge.  Now, these things are surely sent from hell by the devil himself to test our patience to its absolute limit.  

Yes, the flat-pack hidden hinge is an object from Satan's crucible.

It was easy enough to fit, but then actually aligning the door to match in with its two neighbours was beyond my skill level.

I'm not proud of the language that emanated from my foaming mouth as I tried to hold the door in place with one hand and adjust the, erm, adjusting screws with the other all while my back was pleading with me to let it go and call a carpenter.

I eventually managed to align the door.  Two days later.  And my back is now in a much worse state.  Lisa, please stick to burning salad or something, because if the door comes off again, I'm leaving.