Posted by: docdenbow | April 6, 2013

The Denbows Have A Conservatory

The Denbows have a conservatory and very nice it is too. Yet in all of the time that the Denbows have this monument to the middle classes it has been a source of conflict. Initially it housed a beautiful little three piece suite which was very comfortable and offered a gentleman somewhere blissful to snooze on hot summers days and balmy evenings. Mrs Denbow decided that she didn’t like it owing to the fact that the conservatory adjoins the living living room and the site of two three piece suites made her feel quite faint and nauseous. This would never do, so a proper conservatory suite was purchased. Now whilst it did not afford the inherent snoozabilty of its’ predecessor it was a worthy replacement and even this Doc has to admit that it did look better, far more agreeable.

All was satisfactory – for a while. The wheels began to fall off with the purchase of another piece of furniture which, at the time, seemed to be a perfect choice. It was hand crafted pine, beautifully made with a matching swivel chair. In fact it was really what was called in those heady days a “home office” with drawers, cupboards and hidey holes hither and thither. Sounds good, I’m sure you’ll agree. It was good (notice the *was*) and for a time fit its’ purpose perfectly. Its’ utility was, however, impeded by one major factor – size. To state that this desk chappie was large is rather understating the case. Then further compound this state of affairs Mrs Denbow decided that a dining table was required in order to facilitate the use of the conservatory as a dining area. She had a look and made an arbitrary unilateral decision to purchase a dining table from that retailer known by some as the *Garden Of Laminated Delights,* namely Argos. The cane conservatory suite was history.

Delivery was, shall we say, interesting. At 9:30 a.m. a 40 foot articulated lorry drew up outside the elegance that is Chateau Denbow and a team of artisans alighted the mighty truck. My sense of foreboding increased second on second and minute on minute. Doors were opened and this platoon of tattooed titans entered sweating, struggling and muttering silent oaths finally deposited the table and 6 chairs in the conservatory. I stood back gently smoking a cheroot waiting to observe these craftsmen construct this flat pack behemoth.

It didn’t happen though, they just buggered off.

I enquired of Mrs. Denbow what the deuce was happening and why those blighters had departed leaving us with a shrink-wrapped jumble assorted of wood and I was advised that this was just a case of *screwing the legs on.* Never one to shirk manual labour (ha!) I was forced into supplication. I eyed the packaging with suspicion and headed to the outbuildings in search of my extensive toolkit. I returned carrying my Birmingham Screwdriver in one hand and my toolbox in the other.

As a brief aside, the most useful of all tools is the Birmingham Screwdriver and I would suggest that on your next visit to the West Midlands that you call on an ironmonger and acquire such a facilitator, and scrimp not on the price.

Upon unwrapping the table, which dear friends was a feat in itself, I duly surveyed the instructions. The said instructions implied to me that there was more to this than *screwing the legs on.* Furthermore the legs had a look about them that a slap across the face would be forthcoming should you attempt to screw them to anything. In addition, the parts inventory was most bewildering and ran from A -> Z and all points inbetween and the tools supplied consisted of a screwdriver that in a previous life may have lurked inside a Kinder Egg and an Allen Key made from a somewhat malleable compound, allegedly metal based.

I wrestled with the confounded table for no less than thirty minutes trying to free it from its’ polythene prison, and my patience was rapidly diminishing and my good humour evaporating. As this was the height of summer the temperature in the conservatory was 115 F, or 46 C, in other words dashed hot. I was perspiring freely and becoming more and more angry with the table and everything to do with it, questioning its’ lineage and referring to it in several ungentlemanly ways.

Mrs Denbow, entered the conservatory carrying a large pitcher of iced water and advised me to calm down. I advised her that I was calm in a tone that probably suggested otherwise. She requested that I desist in shouting as the windows were open and the neighbours may hear. I advised her that that I didn’t care a tinker’s cuss who heard what and if the neighbours could hear me then jolly good luck to them. With that I returned to my travails and as the hateful moths began to flutter their flights, under cover of darkness the table was finally constructed.

It was at this point that I made it clear to Mrs Denbow that I was off to visit the local Inn to partake of a pint or two of the finest ale that was available. She stated simply and flatly,

“You’ll be lucky, it’s quarter past eleven so they’ll be shut.”

So now we had a dining table that resembled a full sized snooker table in its’ size and as previously notified, the biggest computer desk in Wales. Floor space in the hot house was at a premium so the computer desk was disposed of and I acquired my first laptop computer. (A Lenovo 3000 c200 geeks) However, my antipathy towards the wooden monster that masqueraded as a dining table never diminished. I’m prepared to concede that we didn’t really hit it off at the start, but things always remained strained between us. For several years I pointed out, within its’ earshot that I’d never wanted it from the start. Like a recalcitrant servant it stood between me and true contentment. Then one day something truly explosive happened. Something that was up until that point totally unthinkable.

Mrs Denbow consulted me about *getting rid* of the table. Flashing before my eyes were visions of yours truly wielding an axe to send this spiteful goliath to it’s ultimate demise. But no, Mrs Denbow had conducted a financial transaction where someone (a foolish halfwit) was to purchase the table from us. Immediately I thought of Stephen King’s book “Christine,” if you’ve read read it you’ll understand my thoughts in their entirety.

So now, the conservatory houses a small (tasteless) sideboard, a club chair, two dining chairs and a modest drop leaf dining table. Picture 1824This would be most conducive to an evening of sipping the finest of fine wine yet these days I drink but infrequently but will enjoy sipping fine tea or a selection of Fentiman’s Fermented Botanical soft drinks whilst listening to Radio 4 or the Home Service on the wireless

Ciao For Now




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