leeson 46

   So great is our passion for doing things
for ourselves, that we are becoming in-
creasingIy 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, newly-weds
gaily embark on the task of decorating
their own homes. Men of all ages 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 record
players and radio transmitters. 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.
Wives tend to believe that their husbands are infinitely resourceful and
versatile. Even husbands 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,
wives automatically assume that their husbands will somehow put things right.
The worst thing about the do-it-yourself game is that sometimes husbands live
under the delusion that they can do anything even when they have been repeat-
edly 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 only needed 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.