On Being Handy

I'll be the first to admit I'm not the most burly, manly man in the world. I don't come with a lot of the attributes people seem to expect of men - like being equipped with a vast well of technical knowhow. I'm not the sort of chap who can, after a few moments' glance under the lid of your car, pronounce in assured tones, "Yeah, that's your problem. The mole filter in your catastrophic converter needs a new flagellation grommet," or who can, without a moment's self-doubt, install new windows in every room of his house without breaking a single one. Which I'm sure comes as a disappointment to any female readers I might have.

My brother seems to have got all the handyman genes. Since his teens, he's always kept himself busy painting, spackling, digging or doing other domestic projects - self-taught in a lot of cases. Wherever he lives, his home is always immaculate and in good repair. I on the other hand spent my youth buried in books and daydreams, so that nowadays I could discuss irony in Dickens with you for hours but would look at you blankly if you asked me what kind of washer would best fit the pipe joint in your hand.

This isn't to say I'm totally hopeless: I know the difference between a Philip's and a flathead screwdriver and I know how to change a fuse, unblock a drain, put up a shelf that might not fall back down, assemble most of the devilry IKEA can come up with, that sort of stuff. And I do find a certain quiet satisfaction in uncovering solutions to domestic difficulties when I must: like, for example, when we recently moved to a new house and I figured out how to light the pilot light and set the thermostat on the water heater, which didn't come with a manual. Oh - not only did it not come with a manual, but it was also not obvious just by looking at it what make and model of heater it was and I was able to figure that out so I knew what manual to search for on the internetwebs! And it didn't blow up. I felt pretty pleased with myself, I can tell you.

None of which is to disparage my brother or any other gentleman in possession of the full suite of standard-issue bloke abilities. If you are the sort of fellow who finds joy in Projects - in creosoting your fence, repaving your garage floor, or spending the weekend ripping out all your bathroom fittings and replacing them with identical ones for no apparent reason - more power to you. I personally do not find joy in such things. Yes, I'll do them if they're quick fixes, or if they'd cost 50 times more otherwise, or if it comes down to sorry to hear your living room is under a foot and a half of water, we can send someone out a month from next Thursday. But on the whole, I think it much more sensible to pay someone who has a clue what the hell he's doing and if he knows off the top of his head what a flagellation grommet looks like, that's a bonus.

As the name of this blog strongly suggests, I was thinking about this in the shower today. The shower which has hot water because I figured it out. You're welcome, other members of my household. You see, I am worth keeping around. And now, back to my vitally important contemplation of rhyming couplets in Elizabethan epic poetry.