A lot can change in a week. Although I implicitly understand this, I apparently retain the capacity to be surprised. After a week of Danish alcohol injections, I was pleased to see that I could still discern the flashing red LED of my answering machine, from the rest of the bloodshot world.

One message.

It was a request that I bring my recently acquired worldly perspective to bear on a problem a friend was having with his wife. Now there are solid practical reasons why a policeman would rather breakup a gang war then enter a domestic dispute. So it was with much trepidation that I put on five pairs of thick underwear, stuffed my shirt with newspapers, and made my way over.

Knocking on the front door was not an option as it had been removed. The front porch on which I stood bore a striking resemblance to my recollection of their basement. Indeed it appeared their intention was to re-skin the porch using 1970's vintage faux barn board Masonite panels. A stylistic choice more popular in northern trailer parks I mused as I slowly began to retreat.

"Thank God you're here!" a haggard Mrs. X said as she thrust a seven month old baby in my arms, and then disappeared screaming at Mr. X. Of my own free will I stepped across the threshold and entered the Twilight Zone. It was 4am, my time.

I could feel the house vibrate in sync with a dull pounding noise coming from beyond. A faint "are you sure you know what you're doing" could be made out between the thuds of a sledgehammer.

"Neil get over here and tell her she's crazy!" a muffled voice screeched.

As I moved towards the source of the voice a reciprocating saw started up and shot a plume of debris towards me. I shielded the baby and retreated. A clearly displeased Mrs. X appeared from behind, scowled and hissed, "I thought you'd know better." Then she snatched the baby and stormed out of view.

Mr. X, transformed by drywall dust into an angel, appeared before me.

"I told the crazy Bee-awch not to do it," he said.

"Do what?" I sheepishly asked.

"Look for yourself! They're too f---ing big!" he bellowed while pointing at a brand new washer and dryer sitting in the middle of the room.

"I measured them!" yelled Mrs. X from upstairs.

"What, you think the basement is collapsing under it's own gravity?! The basement stairs were never wide enough!" Mr. X yelled at the ceiling.

"They were yesterday!" Mrs. X screeched.

Just then an enormous black man carrying the splintered remains of a door jam entered the room. "We're gonna have to cut all dem floor joists man," he said as his work boots ground plaster and lath into the newly polished wood floor.

"Maybe we should put this drop cloth down?" I offered.

"Don't touch my cloth, it's brand new!" a distant Mrs. X demanded.

"Sean, get da big wrecking bar while your up dere," an unknown voice from below requested.

"Hang on," said Mr. X, "this is my friend Neil, he's an expert at installing washers and dryers."

Neil Hollands is honoured... but confused... at being published on downwithup.com