In my other life, I've been writing an awful lot about contraception and protection from sexually transmitted diseases over the last couple of weeks. It has been, I'm proud to admit, a bit of an education in which the items I've written might go some way to help young people to make educated choices about their futures before they go off and get themselves swarms of unwanted babies and/or Chlamydia.
However, this weekend I have discovered what may well be the most effective form of contraception known to man or woman alike: Flat-Pack Furniture.
The Ikea form of contraception is guaranteed 100 per cent effective and works on two fronts. Firstly, once your leisurely morning putting together a new wardrobe and chest of drawers becomes a hellish eight-hour fight against poor design, missing parts and your own blazing incompetence, you find yourself in no mood to engage in any sort of act of a sexual nature. Not even with yourself.
As the Screwdriver Shakes set in, you find that your arms are completely useless for even the most menial of tasks, and your back is so stiff that it feels like the six-drawer merchant's chest you have spent most of the day damning its very existence has been rammed, quite brutally, up your bottom. And unless you have very alternative tastes in after-hours amusement, that is hardly preparation for an evening exploring the marital arts.
Secondly, if your significant partner should become involved in the construction of flat-pack contraception in any way, you will find, within approximately ten minutes, that you are no longer on speaking terms with each other, let alone be in a position to play with each others' pink wobbly parts. In even the mildest of cases (for example, the building of a bedside table or bathroom cabinet) this may even become permanent.
So, as you retire to bed on all fours, your partner (now known as 'Don't you ever touch my cordless drill again you HUSSY') not even bothering to acknowledge your existence, the last thing you see as you switch out the light and fall immediately into a pain-wracked sleep in the three door antique-finish wardrobe that makes sure you will never use your genitals ever again.
And, my, does it gloat.
Heaven knows I've plugged my book enough times on these pages. And there I go again. However, this time I'm plugging for somebody else.
Terry Ravenscroft is one of the great unsung heroes of British comedy, and has written material, in his time, for some of the acknowledged greats. He's also got a rather entertaining weblog in these here intarnets.
You might be interested to hear that he's got a couple of books out which you can buy either through Amazon if you're that way inclined, or direct from the author himself at a bit of a discount.
If you've ever seen Terry's Dear Air 2000 website - a collection of bizarre letters of complaint to a number of airlines and their po-faced replies - you know you're in for a treat. Get in there!