MONDAY morning I was up early after a sleepless night craving it. It was too early to get what I needed so I was pacing the flat. I replaced the plasters on my arms and hands that hid the tell-tale signs.
I went to the place to get the stuff but was there half an hour early. There were other guys there too, silently waiting, their faces focused on the object of their need as they stood in line in the rain. For some men it is heroin, for others, alcoho
l or sex. For me it's DIY. I have become addicted to B&Q.
A month ago I would rather have been seen in a skirt than holding a hammer. I'd make foppish quips about the masturbational macho-men that Did It Themselves. What a pathetic activity – trying to turn your private property into a castle with PVA and chipboard. How nouveau riche.
But now, I care not for such cynicism as I have become the owner of a power-sander; a hammer-drill; a range of masonry drill bits; 25 heavy-weight metal Rawlplugs; a hundred foot of professional grade CFS timber; and the thing of which I am most proud, the badge of the confirmed addict – a spirit level.
How did it happen that in only a few weeks I have been moved to tears of joy on witnessing a bubble settle in the middle of a little window? How could this effete slacker have planned and constructed a 36 sq ft self-supporting mezzanine?
For weeks before I'd been getting joiners to give me quotations on the job. They'd turn up, rub their chins and shake their heads, then throw random figures in the air – five hundred quid, eight; it would need a team, a plasterer, the floor might have to be redone too. Money and more money and I was all set for submitting to the process of being financially shafted – but could I get a joiner to actually commit?
The fourth joiner standing me up and I was so angry that I uttered the fateful words: "I'll do it myself!"
At first I was just naively pottering about – a couple of bits of timber and some sketches, then some online help and FAQ's answered by B&Q. I'd try to build a small simple cube that would take my weight, that was the idea. But then something kicked in, some natural high. It was during the sawing I think, the focus on pure physical activity with the possibility of losing a finger. After half a day of this dangerous activity, I realised that I had not thought about anything else at all, not a single one of my usual psycho-sexual-political neuroses. I was in a state of almost meditative bliss. Furthermore, the greater the physical risk, the greater amount of pre-planning, drilling, measuring and cutting required, the greater was the loss of self. The more profound the Zen. The mezzanine grew in tune with my inner peace. I was high on DIY.
The only problem is that now that the job is done, I have started having withdrawal symptoms. Everything sets me on edge – traffic and global warming and news headlines and the existence of people like Katie Price. All of it has me feeling nauseous and craving the simple blissful union of wood and screw. If I can't find something new to build I might have to take the mezzanine apart, just so I can rebuild it again.
Please. If anyone needs a bit of DIY done, would you let me do it for you?
The full article contains 623 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
