Never put your mobile down when doing DIY jobs
Like the time I was putting a TV cabinet together for my mother and couldn't find my phone.

The cabinet was fine, built magnificently and quickly, just in time for me to have a shower before the dinner I had reserved at a fancy restaurant for me and a lady friend - upon the completion of which I would be able to bring her back to my house for a nightcap and quite possibly some heavy-duty shagging.

Yes, it was all going to plan, for once, I thought, as I cracked open a beer in a quick celebratory finishing ceremony.

Mistake number 1: Building mobile phone into cabinet.

Mistake number 2: Forgetting to take my Sertraline.

Mistake number 3: Drinking alcohol whilst being in treatment for panic disorder, a condition which, in my case, is more prevalent when alcohol is present and I haven't taken my Sertraline. I was about to have a panic attack. A big one.

Upon exiting the shower, I hear the distinctive sound of my mobile - the electric guitar cover of Canon in D - at a somewhat muted volume.

"Ah!" thought I as I toweled off. "I must have left it in my work jeans!"

So I pull my jeans out of the linen basket, only to find that they are indeed bereft of mobile phones.

It was then that I suddenly remembered that I had put my mobile down whilst building the TV cabinet.

"Fucksocking buggernuggeting cuntbuckets" said I as I realized the extent of my folly.

The phone stopped ringing as I was pulling my tools back out of the toolbox.

Then started ringing again nearly straight afterwards. My lady at the time NEVER called more than once, she would just leave a scathing message.

It was at this point that the alcohol started to get into my system. Combined with the sudden and unexpected double-call, the two conspired to give me what can only be described as a massive hit of nausea and paranoia.

Good fucking god! Had something happened? Was she injured? It had to be fucking urgent if she was calling more than once! Jesus! Was she on fire? Had her car crashed? Had an ill-advised aircraft sloughed into her house?

My confused, addled mind accepted these terrifying, infeasible ideas as fact. My lady friend had caught fire whilst crashing a car into a plane! And now she was calling me to perhaps pass on her last words!

My brain, at that moment, was in more self-torment than that of the bastard offspring of a Pirate and a Viking who had gotten pissed good and tight and had accidentally done the horizontal mambo in a brothel in Thailand.

But one thing had burnt itself into my synapses through the hazy fog of chemical imbalance and hyperventilation. I had to get to my mobile. NOW.

I picked up a hammer, foregoing the screwdriver, and swung my mighty, misguided arm downwards.

Hardened Steel met fashionably finished matte black coated laminate chipboard at a velocity that far exceeded the recommended limits of safe hammer-cabinet interface.

The chipboard exploded most satisfactorily, a harsh, broken keening wail of terrified triumph tearing itself from my lips as I pulled back for another swing.

Again, steel met chipboard. Again, steel proved the victor. Great fissures and cracks appeared in the cabinet's sides as I hammered it into splintering submission, driven by a combination of adrenaline, paranoia and an increasing sense of disquiet. A lot of fucking disquiet.

At some point I chundered, spraying vomit onto everything whilst I continued to attack with my mighty hammer.

Finally, I stood victorious. The cabinet lay before me in at least twenty three pieces. In it's death throes it had painted almost every surface in the room in the peculiar sawdust-like detritus that chipboard emits when smashed with a hammer.

Thrusting my free hand into the sad pile of shattered IKEA and vomit, I pulled free my mobile, flipping it open and checking the baleful "You have 4 missed calls" message, accompanied by a "You have 1 new message".

They were all from my mother.

The terror ground to a halt. My lady friend was not, in fact, in trouble. I fought my pulse down, breathing slowly to try and calm down.

If any of you have ever had a panic attack, you'll know how draining they can be. Coming out of one is like digging your way out of a concrete grave with a butterknife.

Trembling and sweating, I checked my messagebox.

"REMEMBER TO TAKE PILLS U ALWAYS FORGET"

So it was that I turned up for dinner slightly late, having quickly cleaned up any evidence of there ever having been a cabinet in the living room and quickly showering again to get rid of the chunder-stench.

And I still managed to pull that night, though I got into so much shit the next day when my mother found her carpet a bit soggy.

Apologies for length, the panic attack only lasted about 4 minutes, but it felt a hell of a lot longer.
(DarkLite swallowed my entire undercarriage, Mon 7 Apr 2008, 4:24, 11 replies)

I think
you're very weird
(pounana Slept well, and dreamed of large women, on, Mon 7 Apr 2008, 7:46, closed)

Its not weird
To have panic attacks, though they can be from little ones where you just stare into space, to almost seizure levels. So please- don't mock people that do have them, or have had them in the past (which includes me, and, I suspect, quite a few other contributors to this esteeemed forum).
( Duke Of Belmsford has got 99 records, but Jay-Z ain't one, Mon 7 Apr 2008, 8:10, closed)

@Belmford
Nicely put.
( Cawl, Mon 7 Apr 2008, 9:20, closed)

^ what Belmford says...
Panic attacks are neither rude nor funny.
They are nasty and scary.

*click* for making it a humorous story at the same time - and glad you still pulled despite the adversity!
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Mon 7 Apr 2008, 10:32, closed)

I am OCD about being on time
which means I get awful panic attacks when I'm late for anything. I sympathise with the insanity.
( Madam Marlboro wonders if you've found her yet, Mon 7 Apr 2008, 12:23, closed)

Panic Attacks
By far, the worst thing I inherited from my father.

On the (relatively) plus side though, I got out of a lot of trouble in the aforementioned following morning by having another slightly less insane panic attack when my mother shouted "THE CARPET SMELLS OF FUCKING VOMIT!".

I got a cup of tea and a bit of cake. Result!
(DarkLite swallowed my entire undercarriage, Mon 7 Apr 2008, 15:14, closed)

awww...you got cake
That is lovely. Cake is good.
( flirting with badgers What? It sounded good at the time., Tue 8 Apr 2008, 3:34, closed)

Cake IS good
But so is pie.

Someone needs to invent a Pie-Cake. Or a Cake-Pie.
(DarkLite swallowed my entire undercarriage, Tue 8 Apr 2008, 8:20, closed)

^ Mrs Doyle
From Father Ted made a jumper-cake for Eoin (?) McLove. She knew he loved jumpers and cake so combined the two. She knitted him a jumper / sweater / pullover, then baked it into a cake...
One of my favourite episodes.
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Tue 8 Apr 2008, 11:29, closed)

I vaguely remember that
But seriously, a pie made of cake would be awesome! Essentially pastry-wrapped cake, the best of both worlds.
(DarkLite swallowed my entire undercarriage, Tue 8 Apr 2008, 14:18, closed)

I skipped ahead...
...so I thought you were looking forward to some heavy-duty shagging with your mother. Talk about a DIY disaster.
( kingoffools, Tue 8 Apr 2008, 17:54, closed)