We are chavs.
A 40 inch television screen has arrived in chez fatmammycat & paramour, plus an enormous table stand thingie that turn out-niftily enough- to be the speakers for this behemoth.
'What does it say about us Paramour that the biggest piece of furniture in our home in now the telly?
'Pfft' said he, looking through the Medusa like set cables.
'We'll be like those idiots from 'Cribs', you know the ones that say, 'En dis is mah entertainment cennnre' but they don't know where the kitchen in.
'Okay,' he grins, 'in fairness I didn't realise the stand was so big, I thought you'd just get separate speakers.'
'It's got its own gravitational pull.'
He plugs it in and dickies around with the base and suddenly my hair is blown back and Puddy- who had been sitting on one of the empty boxes, let loose an anguished squawk, leaped off the box and hid under the table.
'What is that?" I holler.
'Music from my computer upstairs! Queen Bitch! I've rigged it up to this baby.'
I want to tell him to turn it down, that the chimbley might collapse from the vibrations, but then I notice the sheen across his face, the beaming smile, the glazed eyes and it hits me, the man is a gadget freak, and this is the equivalent of me finding those Gucci boots I want so badly out in the shed.
'If you buy a fish tank I'm leaving you.' I say.
'Okay!' he says, cheerily. 'I'm just going to hook the playstation up...holy crap, look at the reception!'
I gather up Puddy and make my way to my office. Surrounded by books and rugs and plants I can only marvel at the technology that makes a grown man so happy. And then I sat down to my 17 inch screen iMac and shook my head.
Chavs. I'd better start talking in Irish in Superquinn to counter balance it.