Why DIY experts get under my skin

More often than not, I’ve loved my neighbours, but not as I’ve loved myself, of course.

But there are odd exceptions. Not so much hating them, but finding them hugely irritating, causing me to itch in regions where scratching is considered uncomely.

I’m referring to DIY fundis.

Usually male – but I have come across the odd lady with the same maddening talent to fix things. And not only to fix, but to fathom how to manufacture irreplaceable items out of wood, steel and rubber.

And these painful pundits, who take sadistic pleasure in the plaudits heaped on them by us pumpkin heads, have the equipment to do the job. Shiny lathes, band saws, acetylene torches and drilling machines.

And what grates even more, you can eat off their workshop floors – with each tool hanging in an outlined designated place on lily-white walls.

Makes me think of hospital operating theatres (before the blood flows, that is; but then again, if I were to use the tools, a limb would get in the way for sure, and a rush to outpatients).

Antonie is no exception. Whatever he touches turns to proverbial gold.

My wooden gate needed some TLC. Thanks to ever changing weather patterns, the wood swelled, making opening and closing a hernia comeback.

A quick shaving with a hand planer, I opined. Antonie looked at me funny before proceeding to remove the whole door, plane the sides, rehanging it with new plugs and screws and if I hadn’t stopped him, he would’ve painted it with a preservative.

Years ago I had a go building a pigeon house for my homers, ending up with the pesky birds refusing to enter their new domain.

No wonder, the first Cape Doctor blew it to pieces. They knew they had to do with an apology for a handyman.

When I told Antonie of the disaster, he didn’t laugh – just gave me that funny look reserved for idiots.

I reckon these master artisans are addicted. They can’t sit still for a minute.

I don’t need a fix to keep me occupied. I’d rather write a column. But even then it’s all garbage, eliciting an Antonie-type look from Heidi. And editors.

Sigh!

Cliff Buchler.

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