Handy
OK - it's official. I need a handyman.I have tried - again (ever so recently)- to get comfortable with the Champagne and fine restaurant brigade. Sorry it's not on. When being shmoozed with fois gras or Dover sole in a cream sauce (a la Normand even) I can't help thinking if the guy in front of me would have a solution to fix the door handle on the downstairs powder room door. I can't get romantic if I can't imagine being able to ask someone to whip out their Black n Decker and sand down the wooden door that's swollen from the rain.
I know it's ridiculous. I know I so deserve to sit back, relax and have someone really pamper me. And the person pampering me deserves kudos for their efforts. However, I would make a 3-course, Michelin-starred meal for a man who spends a couple hours in the garden with me. I don't know where this comes from. Perhaps it came from my parents.
My Dad is the least handy man ever born. His 'tool drawer' in the kitchen has a roll of duct tape, a ball of rubber bands and some twist ties from plastic bags - which are the most sophisticated tools he can use. It's so unnatural for a anyone (much less a man) to not really be able to do those simple things. Once I went home and found that Dad had duct-taped a brick to the floor under the kitchen table. A brick...! Apparently there's a grill for the central heating under there and the grill was damaged by a chair leg. So instead of sorting it out the logical way, he decided to protect it with a brick and duct tape.
There's two things at work here - Dad is not handy and Dad is 83 years old - a little bit of both makes for very interesting house repairs.... Anyway, I showed him that you can buy a replacement grill at the hardware store and fix it very easily - Mom - the long suffering, patient wife is always ready with the plumber's number when Dad tries to fix the sink himself. When they got married and moved in to their first apartment together (49 years ago!) he called the superintendent of their apartment building to hang their paintings on the wall. My Mother was so embarrassed that she hid in another room.
By the way - I am a bit grouchy with Dad because he found himself in my 'Old Room' the other day when the plumber came to fix something he messed-up. My Dad read all of my high school year books - AND all of the quotes and comments written by friends. How dare he? And why do I have to explain the word 'toke' to my father when I am 41? There is a statute of limitations clause on explaining high school behaviour isn't there? Like aged 25 or something...
You know who is handy? The Welshman, of course. And he loved eating dinner under the trees in the garden petting Bunny Dog and drinking wine - setting the world to rights.....But alas. He lives in Wales now...
Hmm...where to find a handy man...
posted by Brussels Confidential @ 11:05 AM
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