Teresa Driscoll - The Home Front

While Teresa’s husband contemplates his next DIY project, she is secretly thumbing through the Yellow Pages

Though it pains me to say this, there are times in any marriage when deception really is the best route to happiness. Fifteen years research into this subject and I have learned that there are occasions when the only option is to sneak men into the house once my husband has gone to work.

He is a good man with many fine qualities. And yes, sometimes I do feel guilty about this, but trust me… when he gets his toolbox out, you do not want to be around.

Early on in our marriage, unaware that the flesh was weaker than the spirit in matters DIY, I would innocently indulge his delusions by accompanying him to those out-of-town (out-of-your-tiny mind) monstrosities where we would spend the price of an extension on a trolley load of bits and bobs, only for me to be told hours later that the whole project was “turning into a bloody nightmare”.

It would never be his fault. It would be the walls that were the wrong thickness, the drill bit the wrong size. Or, wait for it, it would actually be my fault… for buying the wrong things.

How well I remember the time he bought a paint stripper to “save us money” on a painter, only to watch him turn it on a window and crack the glass.

Then there were the ‘repairs’ to the porch, which I was reliably informed needed to be saved from rot. (This ahead of the arrival of the professional I had insisted on booking to paint it.)

“The important thing is you have to dig out all the rot,” he’s telling me. “You have to dig, dig, dig right back until you’ve got it all.”

I do not think it wise to tell him that the hole he has dug, dug, dug in the corner of the porch window is in fact so very deep that the whole structure looks to me in danger of collapsing in on itself.

Thankfully a neighbour saved the day with a piece of four-by-four, which I thought was a car, but it turned out to be a terribly useful piece of wood.

So my tactic these days is to keep my mouth shut. Nothing in our house needs doing... honest. (And OK, so sometimes strange men in overalls turn up while he’s out – booked, paid and despatched before he has time to get out his tool box. But where’s the harm?)

Until this week, and the dishwasher delivery. I honestly thought I had this one covered – paying the extra to have the lovely delivery men take away the old machine and install the new one. “All you have to do, madam, is the disconnection.” Husband reckons it will be a doddle. Meekly I suggest we should perhaps get onto this with plenty of time to spare... you know, just in case it’s a bit trickier than he thinks.

Noooooo. Just a couple of pipes, apparently. So the children are in bed, it’s late and I am overtired when he discovers that the plastic, twisty washery connection thingy is stuck, which means he can’t disconnect the hose to the dishwasher. Not his fault, you understand but “the whole thing is turning into a nightmare…”

In desperation I suggest we cut the hose so we can at least get the old machine out.

I remind him to turn the water off. I watch him turn the water off and then stupidly I leave the room.

Less than five minutes later he is shrieking for help – water at full pressure spraying all around the kitchen from an out-of-control hose.

“But you turned the water off. I saw you turn the water off.”

“I must have turned it back on.”

“Why would you turn it back on?” He doesn’t remember.

All I can say is it’s a good job I love him. As I write I am secretly investigating the possibility of having our dining room carpet replaced with tiles. On your life you are not to tell him because if he says “it’s just a bit of grouting. How hard can it be?”…

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