In a word, no.
In two words: no and no.
My father would often knock holes in things with great confidence, if perhaps not an entirely defined purpose. It did leave a childhood filled with mysterious holes, unfinished and ill-defined projects and things my mother told me I really shouldn’t slam. Little of this skill, such as it was, rubbed off on me. We did have a big encyclopaedia of DIY that made it look pictorially easy. I used to peruse this and imagine myself the sort of adult who could, given a hammer and free afternoon, erect a small house. There was no reason I couldn’t do those things the pictures promised. Other than competence. I learned this later. Maybe I should have shaken that encyclopaedia in case that had come free with the purchase.
As a man, marinated in overconfidence and seasoned with unrealistic swagger, and sense that no clear limitation should stop me, I have over the years accumulated a box of random power tools and a knowledge of YouTube tutorials. All men, I feel, are destined to do this out of some genetic obligation. In our first house, I did occasionally try to do things that caused my wife to look on with a growing concern that would slowly shade into horror as she totted up how much it would cost to undo and strategised how to explain this to me without cracking my fragile male ego like an egg dropped from a tower block roof.
My last venture was an attempt to put up a curtain pole. I did make a proper effort, measuring and marking and assuring my wife that no, it wouldn’t be better paying someone to do this. It was almost like she knew something I didn’t, or perhaps had gained the power of foresight. Up the step ladder and brandishing a drill, the first hole went in true. A correctly sized wall-plug slotted in. A sense of pride inflated inside. I got this man business sorted, and it had only taken thirty-five or so years. I moved to the other side of the widow and in the drill went. Hitting some hidden obstruction in the wall – which, to this day, remains a terrible unfairness – the drill went on adventure, taking me with it, the ladder tumbling. I ended up on the carpeted floor regarding the gouge I’d made down the entire wall, which then required replastering and repainting. There was no such salvation for my ego. Even the kittens looked on with disdain.
I wasn’t asked to do participate in the restitution. A marital reckoning was made. I don’t know where my tools are, I believe my wife has hidden them at the back of the garage, where they are – to this day – guarded by a hoard of venomous spiders she bought specifically for this purpose.
I occasionally put silicone sealant on things. It’s a half-hearted affair, I’ll admit. A pathetic plea that I can still do this. Sometimes they even need silicone sealant applying. I got it in my hair once which was a double feat as I have little hair and it doesn’t come out voluntarily so I had less hair afterwards.
The corollary is that we have an ‘handyman’ who does the man-things I’ve clearly been judged incapable of. Honestly, it’s a relief.
