These days, though, nearly everything you buy has "some assembly required." When you order a chair, a bed or a barbecue, you get a bag of tiny parts and an instruction leaflet that needs a magnifying glass to decode. If I bought a new car, I'm sure I would be given 1,043 pieces, a wrench and an oxy-acetylene welding set.
Recently my wife, Jocasta, ordered two outdoor lounge chairs so we could enjoy some time together in the sun.
When they arrived, she suggested that I assemble them. The instruction pamphlet had a picture of a tiny, straightshouldered man and a clock indicating that the job would take 45 minutes.
They could have entered the pamphlet in the Booker Prize for Fiction. A more accurate ideogram would have been a clock spinning to infinity and a bent double fellow whose spirit was broken. I started work on the chairs at noon and finished, ironically, just as the sun was going down.
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة February 2024 من Reader's Digest Canada.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك ? تسجيل الدخول
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة February 2024 من Reader's Digest Canada.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك? تسجيل الدخول