DIY blues

I was raised in an androcentric culture that espoused quiet competence in all matters DIY, at least among the (ruling) male gender. Imagine the stress and anxiety this causes in those of us, like me, who are born with 5 thumbs on each hand and the practical sense of a suicidal lemming. A constant sense of disappointment in my profound lack of manual ability has conditioned my dislike to a Pavlovian degree; the mere mention of a picture to be mounted or a crack to be plastered over is enough to engender a cold sweat, weak knees and blurry vision as the terror rises.

Needless to say, repairs around the house tend to get postponed until we can absolutely endure no longer and, even then, I don't so much tackle them as approach them obliquely and try to take them by surprise (mine, not theirs). In a sneak DIY blitz yesterday, I

• spent an hour in B&Q gathering equipment,
• mounted Zara's sword on its display pedestal,
• mounted the display pedetsal on our living room wall,
• replaced the broken bracket for Zara's cupboard rail and replaced the rail,
• prepared the curtain rail socket in our living room with a cunning admixture of rawl plug and No More Nails for remounting of the rail,
• and attempted to disassemble the toilet seat to replace the fittings, which have rusted badly (so badly, in fact, that I stripped the threads trying to unscrew them - will need to replace the entire seat now)

I feel I have fulfilled my 'manliness' quota for another 6 months, giving me time to quell the shaking before my next episode.