Written Instructions

It's eight o'clock on a monday morning, I'm wrestling with a tissue box - it a mystery, the guys who make these must have macabre humour, no machine, standing, grinning, funny hat, easy to her. My wife knows how to open, must be from a former life, if it's difficult, it must be the Chinese, trouble and strife; a flat-pack arrives at the door, oh no - not that again, anyway it's done but wife says: 'shelves not right,' pain. Upstairs is assembling a bed - from eight o'clock in morning, until afternoon, when they disassemble - the same, boring; the shaving foam button is stiff - there should be no fuss, the wife looks, I press firmly and it then covers both of us. Don't use the sat-nav if you're taking a trip to heaven, well because there's an outside chance you may end up in hell.