Fucking Bunnings!

It’s the weekend in Australia.

Which means it’s time for the ritual drive to your nearest cathedral of latter-day handymen and women, your nearest Bunnings Warehouse.

You leave home early to beat the rush, figuring the local charity won’t have yet fired up the barbecue under the green popup gazebo. Which means you can avoid buying a sausage because what the hell’s in a sausage anyway? And could the bread be any whiter? Or spongier?

You can definitely do without the charity sausage. You’ve got some home improvements to get to work on. You’re not here to waste your precious weekend.

You find a park close to the entrance and stride straight in. Acknowledge the quick hello from the young greeter that’s supposed to disuade you from shoplifting.

You’re on a mission. You need a skirting board and nails. Ask another team member to point you to the right aisle. And there they are. But there are just two skirting boards left in the size you need. And both are warped. Fucking Bunnings!

You choose the one that’s least warped. You pick up a packet of nails and try not to think of all the blades and tools and hoses and taps and screws and bits and bobs and whatnots you’ve bought from Bunnings over the years that are, well, complete crap made to the cheapest price.

It’s stunning to realise the household hardware chain sells around $2 billion of crap every year. It’s a pretty good business model. Sell household crap that either breaks or deteriorates quickly and needs to be replaced with new crap. Why sell a quality toilet that’s going to last decades when you can sell a cheaper toilet that only lasts a couple of years over and over and over. Fucking Bunnings!

You check the people already lining up at the checkouts. You think about all the houses built with bits and pieces from Bunnings that are already falling apart. You wonder where real builders shop. You scan the warped skirting board but fumble to scan the plastic packet of nails because the staple that’s securing the lid shut snags on the side of your finger. Now your bleeding and scanning at the same time. Fucking Bunnings!

You wait for the receipt to spit out and head towards the exit, past the biggest pile of the smallest cardboard boxes you’ve ever seen. You try not to knock anyone out with the warped skirting board as you step out. Wait a sec. What’s that smell in the air. Hell, the gazebo’s out and sausages are sizzling. Fucking Bunnings!

You buy one sausage with onions on what’s supposed to be multigrain bread. You try not to bleed all over it as you wolf it down, hoping you won’t get indigestion or blood poisoning. Fucking Bunnings!

When you get back home you size up the skirting board, measure it within a millimetre of its life and delicately cut and hammer it in place. Wait. What? It’s warped worse than you thought. It rises a millimetre and a bit in the centre. Given the whole function of a skirting board is to straighten out any errors, you’re a little pissed. Fucking Bunnings!

You try and pull out a nail but the head snaps off. Seriously! What was supposed to be a simple job becomes absurdly complicated because of crappy materials. With lots and lots of repositioning and fixing to get is a close to perfect as you can.

Just as well you picked up some Polyfilla and sandpaper last weekend.

Fucking Bunnings!