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.”
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.”
“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.”
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…”