DIY should really be renamed DYI – Do Yourself In. I speak from painful personal experience. Like many women who grew up with capable dads, I never learnt my way around a toolbox. I call every gadget a ‘thingy’. My only DIY procedure is the highly technical art of whacking any electronic device until it works again.
Thank goodness wine bottles have twist tops because sometimes even a corkscrew is beyond me.
When the fuse box blew recently, and my kids and I were reduced to feeling our way around the house, not one electrician I called was available until, oh, the next millennium, so I was forced to tackle the problem myself. This involved putting the thingamabob inside the whatchamacallit, turning the doohickey clockwise, then thwacking it with a stiletto heel and... hey presto! Let there be light!
Emboldened by my success, I decided that to be a truly independent feminist, the time had come to tackle my odd jobs. As should all women – let’s be honest, we could reach pension age before husbands get around to their assigned To-Do lists.
After investing in a toolbox, I tried to fix anything that blew up, leaked or fumed. Needless to say, phone calls have started coming through on the toaster, and when I turn on the TV, the shower runs. But it’s a start, right?
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Delving into warranties and manuals
Forget Booker Prize-winning tomes, my reading is now limited to warranties and instruction manuals. And I’ve learnt so much, though mainly that as soon as your hands become sticky with grease, your nose will begin to itch and you’ll suddenly be desperate to pee.
Also, Allen keys; who the hell was Allen and why was he such a sadist?!
I’ve also learnt that humiliation and DIY go hand in hand. I can still hear my neighbour’s laughter when I had to call for rescue after accidentally building myself into an Ikea cabinet.
Although I did enjoy the look of befuddlement on friends’ faces after informing them that I’d recently come out of the closet.
Speaking of my kids witnessing my DIY prowess, mothers of special needs kids tend to develop a robust sense of humour. We also make firm friends, guiding each other through complex terrain. While I try to help my son Jules navigate the autistic maze, my pal Sally Phillips steers her lovely son Olly, who has Down’s syndrome, through similar obstacles. We’re teaming up to write a movie in which kids like ours realise their quirks are actually a superpower. I feel a cameo coming on!
Houses are like men
Refusing to admit defeat, I sought out expert online tutorials on various YouTube channels that promise to ‘cater to all your home decor and maintenance needs’.
Despite studying hundreds of self-help videos, I’m now defrosting frozen mince in the clothes dryer because my microwave’s on the blink, and sporting an impromptu perm from a faulty wire I foolishly fiddled with at the back of the fridge.
Having botched so many projects, I fear my house will soon be taking out a restraining order against me. In short, houses are like men – best not to get involved with one that needs fixing.
In fact, my top DIY technique is to divorce your house and move to a brand-new one.
Having just put together a flat-pack kitchen cabinet, only to discover I have 32 screws left over, I’ve decided there’s only one thing I’m good at making – friends who are good at DIY. And I don’t need a poxy Allen key for that.
This article first appeared in the July 2025 issue of woman&home magazine. Subscribe to the magazine for £6 for 6 issues.
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