A Shim Too Far

Arthur just wanted a quiet cuppa. But his coffee table, a veteran of countless domestic skirmishes, had developed a defiant wobble. Every time he set his mug down, it performed a subtle, rhythmic jig, threatening to launch his Earl Grey into orbit. 'Right,' he muttered, with the steely resolve of a bomb disposal expert, fetching a napkin to shim the offending leg. He knelt, placed the napkin with surgical precision. The table, however, viewed this as an act of war. It lurched violently, sending his carefully balanced (and full) teacup airborne. It arced beautifully, executing a perfect triple flip before landing *splat* on the heirloom Persian rug. Arthur yelped, leaping back with the grace of a startled giraffe, tripping over the ottoman. His flailing arm, a weapon of accidental destruction, swept across the mantelpiece, dispatching the prized (and precariously balanced) porcelain cat collection into a cacophony of ceramic shrapnel. The real cat, a ginger menace named Marmalade, heretofore napping peacefully, launched herself from the sofa, ricocheted off a floor lamp, sending it swaying like a drunken lighthouse in a gale. The lamp's shade, seizing its chance at freedom, detached and flew directly onto Arthur's head, just as he was attempting to untangle himself from the ottoman. He emerged, dazed, tea-soaked, and sporting a jaunty lampshade, to find the room looking like a tornado had attempted avant-garde interior decoration. The coffee table, amidst the wreckage, now sat perfectly still. Seemingly smug.