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I giggle as I slide into our living room. “The rug stops me now!” I say.

We have been to Ikea and the bank is broken as predicted.

“It smells of new carpet,” MindReader says, screwing the legs onto our new end table.

“Mmm,” I say.

He sets the end table upright and we admire it briefly.

“Ooh, I forgot,” MindReader says. “Present time.”

“Ooooh,” I say.

He comes back in with his suit jacket in one hand, the other digging in it. “Here,” he says.

He hands me a box of posh teabags. “Winter spice flavour!” I say excitedly.

“And caffeine free,” he smiles.

“Ooh, oooooh,” I say.

“Right,” he says as I head off to the kettle. I hear him getting our TV unit out of the box and the sprinkling sound of screws on our wooden floor.

I make drinks, and he builds it for a while. I don’t pretend I can help: flatpacking is not my scene for about a hundred reasons.

I write my novel for a while, focussed in my own world and him in his. Our eyes meet occasionally as I stop and scrutinise the air in front of me and he sighs and reaches for the instructions once again.

I close my word document as he stands the TV unit upright. Together we lift the TV onto it.

It doesn’t fit. It hangs off.

Neither of us says anything. We stare at it for a while.

“It doesn’t fit,” I say.

“No,” MindReader says.

His face crakcs into a smile. “It’s ridiculous,” he says, flopping back onto the rug. I join him on my hands and knees.

“Completely,” I say smiling.