Not to Worry

DIY tasks do not come simpler than hanging roller blinds: there could not be an easier job for a lazy Sunday morning…

…Step one: go online and find the fitting instructions. Gone are the days of finding a small piece of multi-lingually printed paper in the box. Today, things are much more efficient and feature nothing more than a four-hour online search to find the customised manufacturer’s instructions for fitting your blind which, on closer inspection, turn out to be a wiring diagram for a foot-spa… in Portuguese.

Step two, turn to Youtube tutorial and spend several hours distracted by surfboarding cats…

Open first box to find that blind has left handed control and right handed brackets. Youtube says that this is normal and easily remedied. It is 50% correct. It is definitely normal for things to be wrong. No to worry, correction takes little more than thirty minutes – six hours if you include the trip to A&E – and is barely noticeable if you do not look. Once done, it is but the work of a moment to reverse all of the remaining instructions in your head… or some of them. There is always one that slips through. It is referred to on the instruction video as ‘the one measurement you must not get wrong.’ Not to worry, correcting the error will take no more than three days for a competent builder.

According to the online tutorial the brackets can be fitted to the window itself (they can’t – it has decorative mouldings) to the sides of the recess (they can’t – the holes are far too close to the corner to get the drill in) or to the top of the recess (which consists of a single layer of plasterboard, the depth of which is considerably less than either screw or wallplug). The only practical option appears to be to shorten both plug and screw, hang the blind on the top and wait for it to fall down. Looking at it now, I don’t think it will take long.

Still, not to worry…

I have shelves in this house that I would never walk under – even though they do not have a chain on them that I have to pull every day and they do not hang perilously from screws that will not tighten in plugs that just spin within the decaying plasterboard drillholes. I’m sure that somebody must know how to properly hang blinds, but they’ve never been able to show me. The manufacturer’s website tells me (and I can do little but agree with it) that, if unsure, I should have opted for the ‘no-drill blinds’. When these that I do have (which they were quite happy to sell me) begin to slacken I will employ my own ‘six inch masonry nail’ hanging method – just as soon as someone can show me how to get the bloody things through the lintels.

I am calm nonetheless: they are only window blinds. I choose not to worry about them. I have so much more to trouble me. I could fret about the kitchen light that has taken to flickering each time it is turned on and the tap that drips like… well, a dripping tap if I’m honest. There is more than enough to worry about in this house, but I refuse to let it get me down. Most of it is in the kitchen and the builders are about to beat the shit out of that. It deserves it.

When DIY first raises its ugly head, it is usually ‘man versus house’, but once the job has begun it becomes ‘man versus a whole range of sharp, pointy and electrified implements of self harm’. Raising the garage door is like throwing open the portal to a mediaeval torture chamber: there is not a single implement in there that I have not, at some time or another, impaled myself upon. I look at my little plastic box of electrical gewgaws and reflect upon the fact that I have electrocuted myself so many times I find it difficult to believe that I have not yet developed superpowers.

My dad always told me that you are less likely to cut yourself with sharp tools. I once had chisels that, at worst, would give you a nasty bruise. I sharpened them (thanks dad!) and now they are more than capable of turning me into walking Carpaccio. I have sawed (sawn?) ragged gouges into my flesh more often than I would care to mention and I have even managed to drive a screwdriver right through my hand – in almost exactly the same place as I previously pierced myself with an electric drill. I steadfastly refuse to change the blade in my Stanley knife because, frankly, as things stand there is more chance of accidentally cutting myself with the handle.

As I write this – and against all expectations – the blinds remain exactly where I left them, although to date, no-one has dared to tug on the little chain that unrolls them, and my daughter has just reported that two of her own blinds, fitted by their previous occupant, have fallen down overnight. I told her not to worry, I’ve got boxes full of six inch masonry nails in the garage. She laughed. She is a much more accomplished DIY’er than myself – and besides, she has just bought a new tube of Superglue…

Envoi: they were, my wife assures me, actually fitted back to front, so I turned them around and all is well – except that in order to make the ‘blackout blinds’ accord with the Trades descriptions Act, I now have to fix them to the window frame with gaffer tape. Still, not to worry…

Changes

My wife, although younger, will retire before me. It makes sense for her to settle into her new routine before I have to settle into it too. I have plans, of course, for my own retirement: I want to write more; I want to paint something that is not a wall; I want to get out and about to see the world around me. I think that my wife would like to see me hone my DIY skills, whilst I would like to see me honing my paying somebody else to do it skills.

However old you are, forever feels like a very long time indeed and looking forward into an uncertain future is daunting. Until now work has always provided some structure to life:

Work days – get up, go to work, come home, go to bed
Days off – get up, do all the jobs I couldn’t do before because I was at work, go to bed

but what lies ahead is potentially routine-less and uncertain. Some things will not change – chores have to be done; DIY has to be attempted; phone calls have to be made to people who can put it all right again – but although, in the main, I have been working only two days a week of late, I worry how I will fill those soon-to-be vacant hours. I really don’t want it to be just two more days to fill with what I have always done. I need some new doors to open (preferably ones that I haven’t hung myself). I’m looking forward to doing more of the things that I like, but the question is, will I get away with doing less of the things I don’t?

In fact, what I am doing today is the thing that I love most (writing) squeezed into the gaps between the chores – being ‘of an age’ I can’t possibly charge through the entire day without taking regular breaks for tea and cake – so if I’m a little disjointed, I apologise. (N.B. If you had actually noticed that I am disjointed, I can only suggest that you get out more.) Taking a short break (sometimes of several days) in the midst of a designated task, begins to feel completely normal (as does involuntary groaning, unconscious moaning and – for any male with grandchildren – an unexplained infatuation with Ms. Appleberry from Cocomelon). This is how life changes.

For most of us the changes are slow and creeping, like a glacier moving downhill with barely perceptible but none-the-less inexorable progress: like the inevitable collapse of morals amongst those who, however idealistic at journey’s dawn, search for power and – in the worst instances – find it. There can be no greater irony than that the quest for absolute power is almost always pursued in the name of democracy: that so much hate is invoked in the name of God. Picture a zombie hoard engaged in a merciless rampage in the name of koalas: wars fought in the name of peace.

What we all strive to achieve is change for the better. Whatever the individual specifics, we all just want to be somehow better. To be more open, more friendly, more generous, more smiley, thinner, fitter, healthier… more Ms. Appleberry. I want to be all of those things. Life is all about change. As we get older, the changes become less voluntary and more inevitable. Whatever a person’s beliefs, no-one wants to face the grave with a bad conscience. The very worst of men – and let’s be honest, most of history’s really bad apples have been male – strive to repent before they take their last breath: “What’s that, Mr Hitler? You’re sorry? Oh, that’s alright then, all forgiven…” Ultimately, despite the many challenges I face in my convictions, I still believe in the goodness of the human spirit. The proof has to be in the fact that, despite living in a world that the media tells us is almost exclusively bad, the human race remains, in most part, a single, peace-seeking entity. Put most people – whatever their politics or creed – together in a room with a common goal and individual gifts and they will work together for the ultimate good. (Providing, of course, that there are no board games available.)

If I could have played a part, in however small a way, in making this a somehow better world, I would die a happy man (although, let’s be honest, I would always prefer the staying alive a happy man option). The world is currently a million miles away from being anywhere close to that, but at least it gives me something to do in my retirement…

N.B. This piece was written using all four colours of the very fine pen in the photograph – a generous gift from Mr & Mrs Underfelt. I hope for nothing but the best of days for you both.

…So the days float through my eyes
But the days still seem the same
And these children that you spit on
As they try to change their worlds
Are immune to your consultations
They’re quite aware of what they’re going through… Changes – David Bowie

Could Have Been Worse

The three most scary words my wife ever utters? ‘…I’ve been thinking…’ Three little words that translate as, “You are about to be coerced into something – possibly electrical, certainly difficult, probably dangerous to the uninitiated, and definitely something that you will find right at the very top of your ‘Things I really don’t want to be doing’ list” – a catalogue of all the tasks for which I am uniquely ill-equipped. I am fully aware that it would be considered churlish to respond to “I only want you to paint one wall” in any negative way, whilst being similarly well-acquainted with the fact that one wall will inevitably lead to all walls, all curtains, all carpets, all doors and all electrical fittings. It is, of course, quite illogical that I should kick-back against what I am assured will be “a two-minute job” even though I carry the certain knowledge that it will escalate into something that will consume at least six months of my life and involve God-knows how many trips to A&E, not to mention innumerable three-figure invoices from the qualified tradesmen we are forced to employ in order to ‘put it right again.’

The room that is currently chalked up for the lick of paint is the hall/stairs and landing combo and it fills my heart with dread. It has 9 doors and two windows – so I can, at least, take comfort from the fact that I am not being asked to wallpaper – as well as a virtually inaccessible stair-head which I can only reach from an improvised scaffold made from 3 ladders, part of an old kitchen cabinet door and several rolls of gaffer tape (“So, you might as well do the ceilings whilst you’re up there.”) I will fall – of this you can be certain – the only question is whether I will land on the stairs and stop where I land, or whether I will barrel-roll to the bottom in order to be in exactly the right position to receive the ‘scaffold’ as it follows me in my downward trajectory.

It has been a few hours now since the coat of paint was first mentioned and the discussion has already passed through paint shades, new sockets and switches, new door furniture and new light fittings. It will eventually encompass new carpets and flooring after I hit the deck with a five litre can of emulsion in hand. The total rewire the house will need after I have fused the entire National Grid will, of course, be something we should have thought about anyway – not to mention the complete redecoration that will have to follow. And so it goes…

I have grown used to the exponential growth in the magnitude of disaster that pursues me in any practical task: a kind of incremental plunge into the abyss. There are many contributory factors that have a role to play in the remorseless collapse into pain and chaos; the universal one being me: the tool on the end of the tool. I am a gift to authors who can spare only a single word in describing a character’s (in)competence in all things: inept. From all manner of human interaction through to hammering a nail in without hitting a thumb, pipe or wire: inept. Like a cockle* in a rockpool, I yo-yo wildly between out of my depth and beached, despite the instinctual knowledge that the tide is always coming: closed tight when I should be open, gaping when the seagulls arrive.

Now, I realise that this magnitude of whining does not make me sound like the world’s most enticing man. I’m sure that I must have some redeeming features (Please God, let me have some redeeming features!) but none of them appear to be based anywhere within the scope of ‘practical’ for any mildly proficient person.

I feel as though I should list some of my positive attributes: I am honest, loyal and affectionate (and all of the above without being a dog). I think that I am reasonable company – when I’m not decorating – and I’m a wiz in a pub-quiz. (I sense that I’m beginning to lose you.) I laugh easily and I find joy in the smallest of things. I am always in possession of chocolate and wine. I figure that by constantly fearing the worst I, by and large, preclude the possibility of reality slumping below my expectations – so that, generally, I am relatively satisfied with the way in which things turn out. I think that ‘Could have been worse’ may well be my epitaph.

Anyway, I have already placed myself in the hands of the Gods and assembled my scaffold and minced the length of the plank of wood that I have laid across it. It is just long enough and it bends under my weight only slightly, so it should be ok if I keep to the ends. I have moved the telephone table from the foot of the stairs because it does not look ideally suited to fall-breaking (although, ironically, it does appear to be supremely well assembled in order to facilitate leg breaking) and given full consideration to how I intend to fill the holes I have made in the wall when the scaffolding is down (I am considering the possibility of lengthening two of the four legs on a kitchen chair so that I can balance it on the stairs and, if necessary pile books on top in order to achieve the required altitude). I’m quite proud of that plan – and we all know where pride comes…

A man, he’s like a rusty wheel
On a rusty cart
He sings his song as he rattles along
And then he falls apart…
We’ll sing Hallelujah – Richard Thompson

*I think that this might, to many of you, be ‘clam’ but, be honest, cockle is definitely funnier.