My DIY hell

No, I haven’t been given the sack from The Northern Echo, instead, I’ve been banned from doing any more DIY in our new house.

I have left a trail of destruction, uttered more expletives than I thought I knew, wished injury on my tools, my toolbox and the entire staff of B&Q.

Enough was enough.

When we moved to our new home, there was a list of jobs that needed doing that seemed inappropriate to contact our landlord for. Putting up curtain poles, re-sealing the bath, sealing windows – simple jobs that can easily be ticked off by a competent person.

The problem is that in a practical sense, I am far from competent.

It was the same thing at school. English, maths, science were all a doddle, but woodwork was a shambles. Practice does not make perfect. In my case it makes it worse.

I once tried to seal a bath with expanding foam – seemed like a good idea – that applied itself to everything around me including my hands, which then applied themselves to each other.

My toolbox hints towards my tendency to botch a job. Expanding foam remover, gaffer tape, no more nails, pound shop screwdrivers.

The drill is the only thing I spent proper money on. And even then it was discounted.

My first job of the week was to plumb in the dishwasher. Simple. Drill a hole in the bench, remove the plug, thread the flex through the bench, re-attach the plug, attach hoses, switch on. Probably a 30 minute job all in.

Electrics, water and an inept workman combined to create smoke, a small flame and another trip to B&Q for a new plug.

Undeterred, I threw myself into the next job, the simple act of putting a curtain pole up.

Armed with my trusty drill – not one of those weedy cordless efforts, you plug this one in – I shinned up the ladder, picked my spot and plunged the drill into the wall, the power of which threw me backwards and left me teetering on the top rung of the ladder, only being held up by my impeccable poise and balance.

Stabilising myself, I got back to work. The drill chugged happily as I drove it into the masonry. Plaster, then the reassuring red of brickdust – I’m home and hosed. The next hole down was like drilling into a box of cornflakes.

Trial and error won the day, find two holes together where I could anchor the brackets. All in all, I drilled a total of 16 holes, my anger rising with each one, culminating in a crescendo of vulgarities so crude that Frankie Boyle would blush were he eavesdropping. Which isn’t too difficult as my wall now has 16 holes in it.

To relax, I decided to move some things into the attic: two spare chairs and the Christmas tree.

I’ve now got a lovely bump on my forehead where I somehow managed to spin one of the chairs above my head and plunge the leg straight into my head. I hurled the offending chair into the attic so far that it almost smashed through the roof.

I sat in a crumpled heap as my attempted good deeds were left undone.

All I have to show for my efforts is a toilet roll holder which, so far, is staying where it is. That will be my legacy to this house.

I’ve cheated death three times this week and that’s what I would leave. A slightly wonky toilet roll holder.

But it’s mine, and I’m proud of it.

The rest of it? Stuff DIY, I’m doing GSEITDI – Get Someone Else In To Do It.