I’m writing today’s post to the joyful yet brittle sounds of a drilling man. A drilling man in my house making, doing, and fixing things for our family. I ask you, in the words of the Super-group Steps,
“Ever had a dream come true?”
I have, today. And it’s Epic.
This particular Handy Man is my friend’s husband. And, Boy! She struck gold with him. Not only can Handy Man turn his hand to anything fixer-y, he also cooks spectacularly well , irons his own stuff and… has a proper job on the side.
On a day like today, therefore, I am forced to ponder as to why it was that I chose to share my life and, perhaps more importantly, my home, with a man who can’t DIY, won’t DIY, but will pay someone else to Do It Themselves?
Don’t mistake me, my husband is a clever man. He’s done brilliantly in the highly competitive field he chose to pursue. He’s sometimes even flown to far flung lands by people who want to pick his not inconsiderable brain. Yet when it comes to a hammer, chisel, and sometimes even a humble lightbulb. Nada.
I had no inkling of this catastrophic gap in his skill-set before we got married. Only the odd wry smile, or quick glance away, from a member of his family when anything remotely to do with nails or self-tapping screws came up randomly in wedding chatter.
But once legally bound it all became clear that my husband hailed from a iron-clad line of DIY numpties. His father famously, when fixing the street number to his daughter’s front door, for reasons we may never find out, decided to put it up…. on the inside; rather than where postmen and other interested parties might find it useful.
What hope did I have?
Mind you, he’s quite a natty dancer and is never shy in coughing up for a bag of chips.
So, ya know, I did okay.