I have been moaning to the present Mrs Hughes that our TV is too small for our living room. We movedd to a bigger house three years ago, and i have been struggling with inadequate viewing facilities since - she hardly watches TV at all, but regular correspondents will know of her passion for the 'beautiful game'.
So, as the World Cup approaches, we attend our local superstore, a 40" for the living room, and a 36" for the bedroom are duly selected, Mrs H draws tears of pain from the manager by hammering a discount out of him that probably means he has to make up the difference from his own wages, and thanks you youngest-born's dab hand with screwdriver and instruction manuals, both are up and running as of tea-time yesterday.
Yipee! But why did it take until some football shenanegins before we got to this stage?