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A cursory inspection proved surprising. It actually looked rather good: The beds looked like beds, the wardrobes seemed in order, and the storage space could conceivably be used for its intended purpose. My father beamed at our expressions and urged me to climb the ladder to the top bunk. My brother, a little older and therefore more sceptical, still had his doubts and wondered how many nights he’d have to spend with one foot on the floor, waiting for the first crack that heralded the total collapse of our beds.

But when I got up top, it was sturdy - no movement, no swaying. Mum relaxed her grip on the phone, and I continued to explore as my father showed off the sliding doors to my mother. I, getting a little carried away with the thought that my father may have actually cracked it this time, slid open the door that led into the storage area above. As it opened I saw a huge expanse of emptiness that could hold all my games and comic book collections, and, as my parents chatted, I climbed in…
 
...after the concussion had worn off and the bandages were set in place, I would admit to it being a momentary lapse in reason. My misplaced confidence in my father’s construction skills had led to my downfall. He had indeed fixed all the struts and joints as per the instructions, and his clamping and gluing techniques were really quite exemplary. Where he’d failed was in the fact that, though he’d attached all the components together tightly, he’d failed to attach them to the wall. With the sudden addition of my weight, Newton’s laws of severe wobbliness took over and the wardrobe, storage space and, oh yes, an overly optimistic child all came crashing down. When the dust had settled and everyone had taken in the full horror of the scene, the only sound was that of a finger hitting the phone three times and a weary voice on the other end enquiring: “Which service do you require this time, Mrs Dixon?”.