The Weasel: It’s a funny thing about Homebase, but when I’m thereI
Early on a Sunday morning, the threat remains far distant. A cloud no bigger than a woman’s fist. I know I’m safe until 11.15am because Mrs Weasel is consumed by the omnibus edition of The Archers, “Can’t talk now,” this gentle creature barked at her mother, who made the mistake of telephoning during the holy hour. “Debbie’s going to be beaten up by Simon Pemberton.” But once the folk of Ambridge have finished their shenanigans, I’m plumb in the danger zone. Last Sunday, the blow fell during the seagull chatter at the start of Desert Island Discs. “Even you can’t put it off any longer,” intoned the chatelaine of Weasel Villas. “We’ve got to go to Homebase.”
Despite my protests that the sitting room had only lacked an operative curtain for a little over a month (well, call it six weeks), we were soon nosing round that innermost circle of hell populated by DIY devotees and their incessantly squawking offspring. Not that I was exactly squawk-free myself, while Madame spent aeons probing among the curtain accessories. “I can’t find a cording set,” she wittered. “I want overlapping arms and they haven’t got those.” My helpful suggestion that she should instead settle for a pair of heavy-duty tile nibblers or a hot-melt glue-gun did not go down too well. “Why don’t you belt up?” she hollered.