Never let it be said that I can't pull my none-too inconsiderate weight when it comes to manly duties. It's unlikely that 'll be called upon to chop much firewood, neither am I going to be going around saving us from roaming grizzlies. However, I have a great line in removing lids from jars.
And, occasionally, very occasionally, I will be asked to perform acts of do-it-yourself.
Stop sniggering at the back, there.
On Thursday, Katie called me at work to tell me that there had been an incident. On coming home, she'd switched on the light in the living room, only for one bulb (out of three in the fitting) to pop. Well, 'pop' is a bit of an understatement - there were bits of bulb - glass, filament, etc, scattered all over the floor.
By the way. I have observed that asking in a loud voice, "What do you mean, exploded?" down the phone is guaranteed to get the attention of your co-workers.
The remnants of the bulb were still stuck in the fitting, and weren't going anywhere fast. Given that we were now 33% down on available illumination, Katie leapt on this as a perfect retail opportunity. After all, there is nothing finer than shopping for light fittings, is there? Shortly we were the proud owners of something that looked like a chrome plated dish of pasta, with five arms, each of which would project 40 watts of photons into our lives. And I was to mate this item with our ceiling.
I am not trusted with anything structural, for that would be foolish. Allowing me to deal with the gas supply would just provide the B27 postcode area with its own new impact crater. And as for plumbing - that's not going to happen until Katie finishes that "Build Your Own Ark" partwork. But strangely enough, when it comes to electricity, basically I'm handed the pliers and told to get on with it.
How we've not become human barbecues before now I'll never know.