Zen and the Art of Screwing
The philosophical perils of DIY
Two days ago, I tackled what I’d been putting off for awhile — installing more bookshelves on the landing. The situation had got critical. The books in my study had slowly and totally taken over. Every available space was occupied by precariously leaning, towers of books.
Immediate action was required. This is somewhat relative. My response was subjectivity prompt. I took action within a few weeks. That is, after undertaking various and lengthy consultations with myself, and all courses of non-action had been thoroughly investigated and pursued.
After this requisite period, the conclusion was bleak yet inevitable. I bought two long shelves plus brackets to get to work. Two slabs of thick and heavy wood. Apparently they were reborn from scaffolding; re-stained and put through elocution lessons to start a new bourgeois existence.
Regular readers of my meanderings will know that I don’t see eye to eye with DIY — other than making horrible rhymes, that is. As usual, I sweated and strained and stomped through this most painful of procedures.
It’s not me, it’s the walls, it’s the plaster. They never behave as they’re supposed to. The plaster crumbles and succumbs to a hole twice as big as the drill bit I’m using. Or suddenly the drill slips into…
