So great is our passion for doing things for ourselves, that we are becoming
increasingly less dependent on specialized labour. No one can plead ignorance
of a subject any longer, for there are countless do-it-yourself publications.
Armed with the right tools and materials, newlyweds gaily embark on the task
of decorating their own homes. Men, particularly, spend hours of their leisure
time installing their own fireplaces, laying out their own gardens; building
garages and making furniture. Some really keen enthusiasts go so far as to
build their own computers. Shops cater for the do-it-yourself craze not only
by running special advisory services for novices, but by offering consumers
bits and pieces which they can assemble at home. Such things provide an
excellent outlet for pent up creative energy, but unfortunately not all of us
are born handymen.#
Some wives tend to believe that their husbands are infinitely resourceful and
can fix anything. Even men who can hardly drive a nail in straight are
supposed to be born electricians, carpenters, plumbers and mechanics. When
lights fuse, furniture gets rickety, pipes get clogged, or vacuum cleaners
fail to operate, some woman assume that their husbands will somehow put things
right. The worst thing about the do-it-yourself game is that sometimes even
men live under the delusion that they can do anything, even when they have
repeatedly been proved wrong. It is a question of pride as much as anything
else.#
Last spring my wife suggested that I call in a man to look at our lawn mower.
It had broken down the previous summer, and though I promised to repair it, I
had never got round to it. I would not hear of the suggestion and said that I
would fix it myself. One Saturday afternoon, I hauled the machine into the
garden and had a close look at it. As far as I could see, it needed only a
minor adjustment: a turn of a screw here, a little tightening up there, a drop
of oil and it would be as good as new. Inevitably the repair job was not quite
so simple. The mower firmly refused to mow, so I decided to dismantle it. The
garden was soon littered with chunks of metal which had once made up a lawn
mower. But I was extremely pleased with myself. I had traced the cause of the
trouble. One of the links in the chain that drives the wheels had snapped.
After buying a new chain I was faced with the insurmountable task of putting
the confusing jigsaw puzzle together again. I was not surprised to find that
the machine still refused to work after I had reassembled it, for the simple
reason that I was left with several curiously shaped bits of metal which did
not seem to fit anywhere. I gave up in despair. The weeks passed and the grass
grew. When my wife nagged me to do something about it, I told her that either
I would have to buy a new mower or let the grass grow. Needless to say our
house is now surrounded by a jungle. Buried somewhere in deep grass there is a
rusting lawn mower which I have promised to repair one day.&