There is a man…and then there is a drill

Hand drill

Yesterday my boyfriend bought a drill. He wanted to get into the DIY spirit of things and offered to use his new toy to put up my blind for the impending renters. As we met for a post-work drink he pointed at his purchase nestled in the bag. It was housed neatly in an army green box that wouldn’t break if dropped from the Empire State building. This drill was obviously hardcore.

After I did the appropriate amount of oohing and aahing I let the drill talk slide and got onto other things. But as the drinks and the sun went down, the word’ drill’ or ‘drilling’ was mentioned a number of times with the type of vigour normally reserved for someone after a snort of cocaine or psyching up for a marathon. He was clearly excited.

When we got home the drill was unveiled. A massive thing with not one…wait for it…but two chargers. After jumping around with the instructions he plugged the battery in and then watched it. As I made dinner and occasionally glanced at the TV, his attention was on the plug point and the blinking yellow light. Unable to sit still he went into the bedroom  to investigate the blind situation. I heard mutterings from the other room, mufflings of discontent.

“You’ll need to get it cut to size. That’ll need a saw.”

This line was delivered with disappointment, the tone of a man denied. He slumped back to the couch again.

Dinner came and went. I was satisfied and he was angtsy. With “it must be charged by now” he sprung up, inserted the battery into the drill and pressed. ‘Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz’ cut through the flat. ‘Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz, ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz’. As he tried different variations my teeth started to rattle, vibrate in my head as if loose. Over the z’s I asked him to stop. With a frown he looked around. He wanted to drill and was going to find something that required holes, whether I liked it or not. He surveyed and frowned again. Then there was a shout, a eureka moment that required a carton lightbulb to hover above his head.

“I know I’ll get the screwdriver bits out.”

drill bits

Apparently this machine could not only drill, but also screw. All the bits came out. A hexagon of metal parts that could be used as torture devices if required. They were lined up like little families from big to small; little twisty metal families. After picking one he jumped up, higher and faster than I ever seen him go. He disappeared into the bedroom and went ‘Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz’. After a few minutes he reappeared, the ends of the previous blind that were attached to the window frame cupped in his hand.

“Boom, this thing is amazing. That only took a few seconds.”

“That’s great!”

“Yeah, it is. I’ll be drilling all over the place.”

“You’re loving this thing.”

“You bet I am!”

I laughed and turned back to the TV trying to figure out what Michel Roux Jr. was doing with a rabbit and some prunes. Then something caught my eye. Clutching the drill he was posing, the drill pointed out in the stance of Bond holding a gun. I started to laugh and the poses got more exaggerated, an comical assassin seeking out targets for his new drill. He pouted and strutted, the drill now an extension of him. Minutes passed and he was still at it.

“Sit down will you.”

“Fine.”

With a clunk the drill was plonked on the table and he slumped onto the couch like a scolded child. On the screen the rabbit was now a cellophane turd that nobody should want to eat.

“Ugh that looks disgusting. Who would want to eat prunes anyway?”

My question went unanswered, the cogs turning in his head. Then he turned and looked at me, his ear boring into my cheek. I looke around with a ‘what is it?’ look on my face.

“Now” he said “about that saw…”

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The Plumber Relay

Earlier this week I had issues with my boiler. The water was coming out, but in a reluctant dribble. It was not providing a shower but more so a drizzle. The kind that feels like rain, but you’re not quite sure. I sat there after the plumber left, another company’s number in my hand to call as he couldn’t sort out the issue and wrote this poem.

Leaking pipe

The Plumber Relay

He came with tools

the promise of a fix

new tubes and pipes

amongst his box of tricks.

 

Noises were made

the oohs and ahhs of broke

as water dripped

and gurgled with a croak.

 

As minutes passed

your hopes began to grow

that dreaded block

was finally set to go.

 

But then he said

“There’s nothing I can do”

with hands held high

“You’ll need another crew.”

 

So you are left

the water weak and cold

to scorn and curse

the fixing put on hold.

 

And still you wait

the heat and shower still

for more to come

and take away the chill.

 

So swathed in clothes

I will the phone to ring

and try to block

the pong of sweaty zing.

I cleared, I painted, I realised my flat was full of Ikea

Paint

I cleared, I painted, I realised my flat was full of Ikea

I spent this weekend painting. It is the first stage to moving out of my flat and into the domain of co-habitation. It started off well. I felt energetic moving possessions from one room to the other while covering furniture in discoloured sheets and blankets. While he went to buy the paint – or more so exchange it due to me buying magnolia, a colour that was quickly guffawed at with a “you’re not planning to put that on the walls on are you?” I never realised that magnolia was the leper of the Dulux world. Lesson learned.

So I moved and shoved, packed and wrapped. As furniture was dislodged from its home for 5 years what was under it wasn’t pretty. Dust had given birth to children that procreated to produce grandchildren. It had become a Brady Bunch collection of dust balls. I still have no idea where all the bloody dust comes from and how it accumulates so fast. If anyone does I would love to know. Please just put me out of my misery.

Anyway, when the paint arrived we got tucked in. It became a rolling mania of white matt proportions. It was satisfying, covering up the strange hue of yellow that had somehow gathered without me noticing. He tackled the high bits and me the low ones. It was team work in stripes. An hour later the walls were covered. It was a paint scented brightness that I had not seen since the day I moved in. The flat was new and shiny. We were dentists and the walls were the teeth, but without the bad breath.

Then the ceiling was mentioned. A feat that seemed past my weary arms and hands. Who knew you could cramps from holding a roller too tight? Thankfully he offered and I happily announced I would clear the kitchen for the next whitening experience.

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