DIY in my house is both sporadic and rudimentary. Unless my dad is visiting.
Sometimes, usually in fact, this rudimentariness is a disadvantage. It means when I try to fix things (which I don't very often as I know I can't), it often doesn't work.
For example, I have embedded in the ceiling of my living room, kitchen and hallway, a series of small lights. At least, they should be embedded. They're obviously nearing the end of their natural shelf life now as over the past few months, they've taken it in turns to come slipping out of their natural casing in the ceiling and dangle unattractively, all bare wires and exposed bulbs in midair.
On numerous occasions, I've dragged chairs about and attempted to stuff them back in place. But without fail, they waited til my back was turned and came slipping out again spiteful and defiant.
It took my father's visit in the festival and clever judicious use of newspaper to reinstate them to their more aesthetically attractive position.
So it was with heavy heart that I returned home one day to find the bulb in the kitchen that isn't blown (but has sat unlit and unused for months - more examples of laziness) dangling out of its socket. I've ignored it for weeks. But home this afternoon in a rare moment of daylight, I thought perhaps it was time to act. A chair, a fiddle, a stuff back up and it was cured. Until my back was turned, chair back in place and I heard the telltale sliding grating and it's slithered out again.
I remember suddenly the newspaper. But all the obvious candidates in my living room are still unread (laziness) so I sift irritably through the heaps of papers and stuffs on my living room table. And here's Wit. The prompt script. Hmm, about lightbulb size. So I seize it up. Chair back in place. Cradle the pesky little light fitting with the script, stuff it back up into the ceiling. And so far, so good.
I figure it's like a millennium capsule. I'll find it in some years time when I have my kitchen ripped out and replaced and it'll be a precious evocative memory. Alternatively, the next occupant will find it when they're ripping out the kitchen and wonder what kind of morbid bitch lived here first.
Sometimes, usually in fact, this rudimentariness is a disadvantage. It means when I try to fix things (which I don't very often as I know I can't), it often doesn't work.
For example, I have embedded in the ceiling of my living room, kitchen and hallway, a series of small lights. At least, they should be embedded. They're obviously nearing the end of their natural shelf life now as over the past few months, they've taken it in turns to come slipping out of their natural casing in the ceiling and dangle unattractively, all bare wires and exposed bulbs in midair.
On numerous occasions, I've dragged chairs about and attempted to stuff them back in place. But without fail, they waited til my back was turned and came slipping out again spiteful and defiant.
It took my father's visit in the festival and clever judicious use of newspaper to reinstate them to their more aesthetically attractive position.
So it was with heavy heart that I returned home one day to find the bulb in the kitchen that isn't blown (but has sat unlit and unused for months - more examples of laziness) dangling out of its socket. I've ignored it for weeks. But home this afternoon in a rare moment of daylight, I thought perhaps it was time to act. A chair, a fiddle, a stuff back up and it was cured. Until my back was turned, chair back in place and I heard the telltale sliding grating and it's slithered out again.
I remember suddenly the newspaper. But all the obvious candidates in my living room are still unread (laziness) so I sift irritably through the heaps of papers and stuffs on my living room table. And here's Wit. The prompt script. Hmm, about lightbulb size. So I seize it up. Chair back in place. Cradle the pesky little light fitting with the script, stuff it back up into the ceiling. And so far, so good.
I figure it's like a millennium capsule. I'll find it in some years time when I have my kitchen ripped out and replaced and it'll be a precious evocative memory. Alternatively, the next occupant will find it when they're ripping out the kitchen and wonder what kind of morbid bitch lived here first.
posted by Claire at 4:31 pm
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home