Shropshire Magazine

Vanessa Lloyd Thomas.

Vanessa Lloyd-Thomas bemoans the demise of the DIY hero

“Where have all the good men gone, and where are all the Gods?’ to paraphrase ’80s songstress Bonnie Tyler. 

The thought crossed my mind earlier this week when I decided to buy a bike rack for the back of my car and to have it fitted by ‘experts’. I wasn’t holding out for a hero, I just wanted someone to put the rack on my motor.

It’s not that I am incapable of things practical and, indeed, over the years have assembled more flat-pack tat than I care to remember. 

But on this occasion I wanted perfection. The rack would be carrying my brand new shiny Pashley cycle which cost me an arm and a leg during what can only be described as a cross between a nostalgic longing for simpler times and a sudden rush of blood to the head. I couldn’t risk it crashing into the road because I was an amateur fitter.

Anyway the bike is fab, handmade to perfection, beautifully balanced, and a joy to ride, even if my children do snigger at the huge wicker basket on the front, the pinging bell and the fact that it has ‘only’ five gears. 

In a bid to avoid their sarcastic heckling – Hey Miss Marple! Here comes the vicar! Have you lost your poodle? – I decided a bike rack would be a great idea so I could drive to scenic spots and pedal in peace. 

At a local branch of a national chain I got off to a promising start when a nice young chap searched through a book to ensure that the bike rack he recommended would fit my estate car. Joy of joys it was on offer and I could have professional fitting for an extra £11.99.

Sort of . . . because it quickly became apparent that he had never fitted this model of bike rack in his life before and was going to do what I would have done and follow the instructions. Although in his case, badly. 

Fitted in 15 minutes, it said on the box. Thirty minutes later we were still standing on the car park in the midday sun with him lobbing the contraption at the rear of my car and watching it tumble off again, dragging the windscreen wiper with it. His colleagues arrived for their shifts, had a giggle and went inside. 

Struggling

I know I should have walked away, said “forget it, never mind, I’ll go elsewhere”. But there was something about this struggling young man that reminded me of my sons, and I’d like to think one day people will be as patient with them if they are as hopeless. 

Five times I gently pointed out that it was upside down and back to front. And I held up the photo on the box to show him. He nodded, ignored the advice and found a colleague to help to put it on again upside down and back to front. Again I waved the empty box. 

Then the penny dropped. Actually I wasn’t a silly woman interfering, I was right.

“Perhaps we ought to have some women working here,” they joked weakly. I smiled through gritted teeth, paid the £11.99 and drove to the nearest car park to check all the attachments. 

When I told my friends they were seriously surprised that I had expected anything better from today’s men and boys. 

As girls, our dads were our heroes and could easily mend anything from little radios to bike punctures. As we got older they fixed the knocking sounds in our cars and helped to make our first homes habitable. You took it for granted that all men would be the same, but how wrong we were. 

My own husband is a lovely chap, witty and urbane of course, intelligent and an excellent father to our sons, but when it comes to hanging pictures or wallpaper, putting up curtain poles, fixing cars or even wielding a paintbrush it’s a foreign country to him. 

And he is by no means alone. In fact, the only chums I know with practical husbands are the ones who married farmers. But although they have the skills they don’t have the time to help anyway. 

Trend

I read in the papers the other day that some City traders who have lost their jobs in the current cull have spotted this social trend and set themselves up as surrogate ‘husbands’ to help put together flat-pack furniture, put up shelves and do other minor DIY chores. Apparently they are making a good living and the ladies love them.

Just goes to show Bonnie, it doesn’t always take a superman to sweep you off your feet; just one with a box of tools and some practical knowledge.

Ooohh, Betty . . .