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 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