WE needed a new kitchen table - even I could see that.

Though, in truth, a man whose awareness of furniture goes little beyond a chair to sit in of an evening, a decent sized television to watch and a comfortable bed in which to lay my weary body at night, I had not the slightest doubt it needed replacing.

Not that there was anything wrong with it in terms of quality; the opposite, in fact, for it was well made and quite pleasing to the eye.

The problem was it was too big — a round table which would have accommodated most of King Arthur’s Knights. This was no major minus when the family were growing up, but as they have long since gone out into the world, Ann and I, when sitting on opposite sides of it, have almost to signal each other in semaphore.

So the decision was made, long ago, that it had to be replaced, though that was easier said than done. For finding a neat circular piece of modest size and — crucially — with one central pillar rather than four legs (a monumental minus in the existing one, as each support appeared to be positioned in such a way that sliding a chair past them was a major art), and at the right price, was almost akin to searching for the Holy Grail.

In reality, it went on for years - though not continuously, more when the spirit moved us (very rarely in my case). Then, on a Saturday a few months back, came the ‘eureka’ moment; Ann, along with her sister, Margaret, took the excellent community bus for a day out in Exeter. She returned late afternoon in elevated spirits (the opposite to mine as just before she got home I heard the final League Football results of the season - Argyle had lost and, in consequence, had missed out on the play-offs!) My passing on of this tragic news did nothing to dampen her spirits, though, for she had enjoyed a triumphant day; She had found, and bought, a table - one perfect for the limited space in our kitchen. It was to be delivered the following weekend - the countdown had begun. Ann had been told that on the Friday evening we would receive a phone call from the store which would give us a two hour time slot for the following day during which the new acquisition would be delivered. On the Tuesday evening the phone went in the middle of Midsomer Murders - annoyingly.

On answering it, I was confronted by dialogue far more petrifying than anything I had been watching on TV; A disembodied female voice informed me in chilling, staccato tones, that our order would be brought to us the following Saturday sometime between 7.30 and 14.30 hours - and that we would be contacted again. One hoped we would, for this was hardly the two hour slot promised. The good lady was true to her word for the next evening the ‘phone went again at exactly the same time giving the same message - and again the next. On the Friday, though, the communique was different; This remarkably hard working woman informed that our delivery would arrive the next morning, between 10.30am and 12.30am; The van driver would make contact half an hour before. His call came at 11.30am — our ‘prize’ would appear at ‘high noon’. Impressively, at the stroke of mid-day, a van drew up. I opened our door and awaited the coming of a pristine table; Suddenly I was seized by a potent mix of terror and despair - coming down the path were a brace of gents each carrying a cardboard box. Only a naive idiot such as myself could not have foreseen we were to be attacked by the ogre, “flat-packs”. The boxes were deposited in our kitchen, trance like I signed for them (upon a modern monstrosity, with a “stick” for a pen) and wished these fellows “good day”. Sadly it was not to be such for us. We managed, with much difficulty, to extract the parts of the glass creation from their containers; it became clear why the chaps had staggered down the path - granite could not have weighed more. Mercifully Ann was able to follow the terse instructions. Following a traumatic hour of wrestling with the beast, a stylish glass table evolved. There was, though, a small drawback - it wobbled like a jelly. Help was needed; Thus a call to our good, practical son James who dwells nearby. Like an able doctor, he diagnosed the malady, and having modern tools - plus crucially, the skill to use them - cured it; The structure is now wobble free. And flat packs? Surely the creation of the Devil — and unfair; After all, if I buy a new shirt I’m not expected to sew on the sleeves.