Right, so about this “horror bet” thing. It wasn’t like betting on a scary movie, nothing like that. It was one of those everyday stupid bets that just goes completely, horribly wrong. I still get a bit twitchy thinking about it, to be honest.
It all started pretty innocently. My brother-in-law, Kevin, was over. You know Kevin, always got an opinion, always thinks he knows best. We were out in the backyard, and he starts going on about the old garden shed. It was looking a bit rough, I’ll admit. Paint peeling, a bit lopsided. “Thing’s a deathtrap,” he said, shaking his head like he’s some kind of structural engineer all of a sudden.
So, like an idiot, I puffed my chest out. “Nah,” I said, “I can sort that out. Give me a weekend, it’ll be good as new.” He just laughed. That annoying little smirk he does. “A weekend? You? I bet you fifty quid you can’t even make it look presentable.” Fifty quid! And his smug face. I couldn’t back down, could I? So I said, “You’re on!” That was my big mistake. The beginning of the horror.
Come Saturday morning, I was all fired up. Got my tools out, put some music on. Thought I’d start by replacing a few rotten planks at the bottom. Easy peasy. I pulled off the first one, and then another, and then bam, a whole section of the wall just sort of sighed and crumbled. Termites. The whole bottom frame was basically dust held together by old paint. My “quick fix” just turned into a major rebuild.
I spent half of Saturday just clearing out the creepy crawlies and the rotten wood. Then I had to go get new timber. Got to the store, realized I forgot my measurements. Drove back home, got them, drove back to the store. By the time I got the wood, it was late afternoon. I managed to get a bit of the new frame up, but it was already getting dark. Not exactly “good as new” yet.
Sunday was even worse. Woke up, and it was chucking it down with rain. My new timber, which I’d stupidly left uncovered, was soaked. The ground was a mud pit. I tried to work anyway, slipping and sliding around. I was trying to nail a new panel on, and the hammer slipped, hit my thumb. Swore so loud I think the neighbors heard. Then, while wrestling with a warped piece of that damp wood, I put my foot right through a section of the roof I hadn’t even planned on touching. Water started pouring into the one dry corner of the shed where I’d stored some stuff.
By Sunday evening, the shed looked like it had been through a war. It was leaning even more, half the wood was new and wet, the other half was old and crumbling, and there was a gaping hole in the roof. I was covered in mud, my thumb was throbbing, and I was just defeated. Utterly.
Kevin came over, right on cue. Took one look, didn’t even try to hide his grin. “Well,” he said, “looks like you owe me fifty quid.” He was practically dancing. It wasn’t even the money, though that stung. It was the sheer, unadulterated failure. Having to stand there, looking at that disaster I’d created, with him just lapping it up. That was the horror part of the bet. The shed became this monument to my own arrogance.
I did eventually tear the whole thing down a few weeks later. Cost me more than fifty quid to get rid of the mess, I can tell you. And Kevin? He still brings it up. Every single family gathering. “Remember that shed?” he’ll say. Yeah, Kevin. I remember. That’s my horror bet story. Never again. Some things are best left to the professionals, or at least, not bet on when your smug brother-in-law is watching.
