As a homeowner (I say homeowner - technically the bank is the homeowner and kindly allows me and Mrs O to live in it) I have occasion to perform small maintainence tasks around the old pile from time to time. I do these things not because they are easy but because I am mean. Well, not mean per se. It's just that I get nervous with tradesmen in the house, so I prefer to have a bash at them myself.
I have no real idea what people who use their hands for a living are talking about. This is an unusual scenario for me as, if I might blow my own trombone for a mo, am pretty switched-on. Not much gets past me then. But when some hairy 20-year-old (ahem) electrician tells me I need to give him five hundred pounds for "parts", I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Clearly I want my house to work, and so will cough up under duress. However, the part of my brain that deals with duplicity (let's call it The Weasel Plateau, shall we?) lights up at moments like this and tries to smite me into protesting. When I don't, I spend the rest of the day fretting and am guaranteed to suffer from anxiety dreams. You know the kind of mundane nightmare where you have to eat an entire boiled cocker spaniel at a black tie dinner because you didn't stipulate the vegetarian option on the RSVP and don't want now to make a fuss.
Anyhoos, I've taken on another task recently. I'm installing a water butt in the front garden. You'd think this a piece of piss, wouldn't you? But no - it involves massive drill bits, saws and running water, albeit not under mains pressure. I suppose I could get someone in the do this for me, but that would mean putting up with all manner of plumbing fanny. And I'm not having that.
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