An Easter story

"I got our mat from bin queue", says my mother-in-law. Good lord. I know it's grim up north but I'd not imagined my wife's parents were rummaging in the rubbish to furnish their home. Worse still, they weren't even at the front of the line. It's only after a few more minutes of conversation that the penny drops. B&Q. Not bin queue. Fortunately I'd not said anything, although my eyes had widened to a Marty Feldman-like look of surprise. I hope they'll interpret this as an indication of my love for DIY.

Yes, the in-laws are down from t'north for Easter. This, contrary to any comedy stereotypes, is actually rather pleasant for all of us. My wife is obviously pleased to see them. We've stocked up on hot cross buns, which our resident teenager is enjoying on what appears to be an hourly basis. The cats are inadvertently given the run of the house. And I've gained valuable 'husband points' by tidying the place before they arrived.

At this stage, I probably need to point out that I'm not built like a rugby player. I'm built more like a marathon runner, albeit one who doesn't actually run marathons because he prefers being indoors with a nice cup of tea.

This is relevant because the main part of my tidying was putting a large box in the loft. The box had been sitting on the landing below the loft hatch for a while, mainly because it appeared to be larger than the opening. However, when the house was deserted, I thought I'd have a go. It's a bit like the philosophical question of whether or not a falling tree makes a sound if no-one hears it. If no-one sees me making a fool of myself, I can't possibly be embarrassed.

Having placed a step-ladder below the hatch, I tried to climb the ladder whilst pushing the box from below. Unstable. I almost end up inside the box. I then half-climb the steps and attempt to lift the box. No, there's definitely not room for my head and the box to pass through the loft opening. For a moment I'm stuck until the fear of being found here helps me wriggle loose. Eventually I nurse the box up the steps and into the loft, contorting myself to prevent either of us from slipping back through the hatch.

So all's well. In fact, there's only one downside to the in-laws staying. My lovely wife and I have offered them our bedroom, which means we're sleeping on a sofa-bed downstairs. It's perfectly comfortable - unless you've twisted your back doing something daft in the loft. I wake up as though set in stone like a victim of Pompeii. "He's been doing some work round the house" explains my wife at breakfast time. Everyone nods knowingly. I look for a hot cross bun to ease the pain but they all seem to have disappeared.

First published on vivalewes.com 12th April 2013: http://vivalewes.com/