The first collision with the notorious stitched shelves happened to me long before family life. When I was a student, my brother and I (three years apart, I was younger) rented an apartment for two. And here the kitchen shelf, on which it was very convenient to store all kinds of useful little things, collapsed.

The brother had long vowed to strike straight tomorrow, but each time a chain of fatal circumstances interfered. Then the hammer we have is wrong, so tomorrow he will go to the yard for the right and beaten. The nails that we have are not suitable for the gypsum wall, we need others, he will go to the house tomorrow... Well, you understand.

In a month, the regiment was closed. Only a problem arose. Or rather two. First, my brother is a healthy two-meter-long uncle, and the shelf was attached to such a height that even he had to stretch a little to put something on it, and I with my honest 162 cm didn't even get from the chair to the far edge. Secondly, I cannot use the building level, but even without it it was obvious that the shelf is at some angle to the horizon. The eye is 15 degrees. But don’t get into the men’s affairs, stupid grandmother, and in general, I’ve said that you still need it.

In short, my brother in words very much wants to marry, but not to whom, all women are pigs with claims...