As you ponder your future, dear Reader, consider my own Grand Plans for a complete home renovation.

I shall start with the front door, I told myself. And from there it will be just a short step to repainting the upstairs windows and installing a new kitchen with my own fair hands. I may be extravagantly educated in Runeology, I thought, but I am not completely impractical.

All I need, I thought to myself, is a rawl plug or two.

And so, dear, dear Reader, picture Dr Ada getting into her trusty beetle, shopping list in hand, Sat Nav primed.

I drive.

I drive some more.

In a tone that brooks no argument, Sat Nav tells me I have arrived.

Peering eagerly out of the beetle’s front window I see that I am not at B&Q, but at a sewage works.

I decide to regard my outing as Driving Practice.

On my way home, rawl-plugless, I remember the existence of another DIY establishment three streets from my home. It is true that I have harboured suspicions towards it in the past – after all, it does not have a vast carpark, nor trolleys with a helpline number on them should you need instructions on their use, nor shelves full of leaf hoovers and 50-metre-long garden hoses.

No. But it does have rawl-plugs.

I return home, triumphant. I have rawl-plugs. I have an additional driving hour or two tucked under my belt. My complete renovation project can proceed.

* Do Not Read if Allergic to Metaphors

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