‘im outdoors collects a large and cumbersome, all singing, all dancing cross trainer – a freebie from a friend whose Achilles’ tendon has fallen out with it in a big way.
Family congregate to haul it out of the trailer and into our shed.
Proceed to reassemble it with lots of bad words, orders and mansplaining whilst we attempt not to lose our fingers between the stealthily moving parts.
Two vital bits won’t go where they should, due to being slightly and frustratingly misaligned.
Lots of faffing around with hammers, pliers, a clamp and everyone pulling and straining like medical students assisting with the retractors during gallbladder surgery.
In time, he gets bored, downs tools to have a beer and goes to bed, muttering about warped bars and which of his engineer friends he will invite round to finish the job.
After supper I go back, sit looking at it quietly for a bit without anyone interfering, move the offending parts around a little and work out the mechanics of the problem.
Summon senior daughter for a bit of tactical realignment as I hammer home the bolts and tighten the nuts and step back feeling just a tad smugger than Smuggy McSmugface from Smugsville.