I once helped a friend pick up a Foosball table from a bankrupt bar in a bad part of town. The basic substance was good, but it was gross: Really sticky, covered in a gummy mix of nicotine and spilt beer. And the smell!
We were heaving it up the four storeys of stairs to his apartment when I asked him: how did you persuade your wife? To which he replied: oh I haven’t asked her yet. In that moment the front door opened and wifey made her way up the stairs and squeezed past us without saying a word.
His wife, Elke, is a small but determined woman and she mustered the foosball table with a look of disdain and announced: That price of junk is not coming in our apartment! (That is a very polite version of what she actually said) And she literally blocked the stairs with a clear threat of violence LOL.
My mate considered the situation and then asked his son, who has a one-room apartment next to the family apartment, whether he wanted it. And so a mutually acceptable solution was found.
In the meantime Elke is more chilled about these things. There’s an Indy in the living room