DIY Dads

The first yin, I swear, he was building another hoose! Everytime ye saw him he was wheelin a barrow full of cement. In fact D said much later during an attempt to rekindle an already fully doused romance that they’d hud to move house so he could start all over again. DIY addiction. He tried engaging me in conversation once about plaster-board but realised within a matter of seconds that I hudnae a scoobie and cared even less.

Plagued with them all through my amorous liaisons. Brutal. The only one that wisnae DIY mad was a vicar and that didnae work out too well either. Didnae go down too well with L that I offered him outside in a pub in Cromer over a disagreement concerning the validity of the post-war Atlee government. Ended up walking twelve miles through the Norfolk countryside after refusing to get back in his car.

Always a flaw in my make-up. Songwriter, considerate (sometimes over-considerate) lover, jokester, funster, academic, but couldnae put a shelf up that didnae look like it belonged in Fred Flintstone’s cave, so somehow, somewhere among the Gods of stereotype, manhood is questioned. And, and yet, some boorish, boring prick (and believe me, at least a couple of my DIY dads were boorish, boring pricks. One of them even won ‘Boorish, Boring Prick of the North-West Territories' seven years running) can knock up a patio and a barbecue set and he’s Man of the Year.

One wonders if the reason Van Gogh really went mad, artist-genius as he was, he found himself unable to assemble some Netherlandish version of a flat-pack kitchen unit and cut off his ear in shame. His last words were reported to be ‘fucking dowels…!’