The downside of divorce is that you have to do your own DIY. All of it. I have had very little experience of power tools in my life, but I’m having to get to grips with them now. Thank you for that too, Simon the Knob. Today is putting up shelves. I gave up last time I attempted it and drank gin instead. I wish my dad was one of those dads who comes round to decorate for his daughter, but he’s not. My dad, though I love him dearly, hasn’t a practical bone in his body. If my mum wants any little jobs done round the house she has to ‘get a man in’. I want to try to avoid going down that route. Women can do anything these days and that includes putting up shelves.
This morning I’ve been onto YouTube and watched many, many videos of people putting up shelves – only getting slightly distracted by videos of Take That and cute cats doing foolish things. Anyway, on the shelf-putting-up videos, they make it look easy. I can do this. I am woman. Hear me roar.
First, I’ll have some more toast.
I’m feeling quite flat this morning and I don’t know why. I had a lovely weekend, spent time with nice friends, ogled Gary Barlow and Co., and hung out with a lot of guys in neoprene. What’s not to love? So why do I feel like a deflated balloon inside? I’m on my third coffee and still I’m not getting that lift I need. I add two chocolate digestives to the mix and wait. Still nothing. Then extra-extra toast does nothing either. This is serious.
Maybe Joe warning me off has left a weird taste in my mouth. It was a real sideswipe. We hadn’t even got into full-on flirting. I don’t want to get involved with someone like him, anyway. Why does he even think that? He might be handsome, he might be nice, but he’s not exactly without complications, is he? Two of them in particular. Perhaps it would be different if I had my own children and was looking to form a blended family, but I’m not so why should I be in a hurry to take on someone else’s offspring? And there are other handsome, nice men out there. I’m sure there are. Also, I really do want to embrace this whole single thing. I’ve been a serial monogamist since the age of fifteen and I want time finding out who I am when I’m not in a couple. Plus, I’m not getting any younger and this might be my last time to play the field. Don’t they say that women over forty become invisible to the opposite sex? That means I’ve got, at best, a few years to have some unfettered fun. Actually, that’s quite depressing.
I should look for something else to do besides diving. Something with less testosterone. I pull my iPad towards me – and two more chocolate digestives for good measure – and Google ‘hobbies for women in their thirties’. This is the list. In alphabetical order. I kid you not.
Acting. I’d get hives if I even thought about going on stage.
Biking. Mountain or road. Me and Lycra are not a good mix. At least in dive gear I’m under water where no one can see me.
Birdwatching. Seriously? Apparently, 85 million Americans enjoy this particular hobby. I didn’t even realise there were that many Americans.
Blogging. I have no life, ergo nothing to blog about.
Bowling. Described as a ‘fun group activity’. I’d rather eat my own face.
Calligraphy. Camping.
Canning. I have no idea what that even is. Oh. ‘The preserving of leftover fruit and veg.’ Not on your nelly. Surely no one can get their kicks from that?
Cards. And not even poker. Bridge is what they suggest. I didn’t think you could play bridge until you were over seventy.
Chess. Chess! ‘Wonderful for staving off Alzheimer’s to which women are particularly vulnerable.’ Oh, joy.
I skip through dancing, embroidery, floral arranging, gardening and geneology.
I dip back in at quilting. And straight out again. Did I accidentally Google ‘hobbies for women in their nineties’?
They suggest spending time with family and children. Is that even a hobby? That’s just life, no? A hobby is what you do when you need to take yourself out of your life. Or find friends. Or give yourself a thrill with something that isn’t out of an Ann Summers shop.
W is wine tasting. Now you’re talking! This is the most interesting one so far. Though solo wine tasting every night seems not to be recommended. It stresses, rather heavily, ‘occasional and social drinking’. I don’t know about you, but I’m always much more sociable when I’m drinking.
Y equals yoga. Strictly for vegetarians and people who wear Crocs without shame.
Nothing for Z. No zoology, zorbing or ziplining. Not even Zumba, which I have already tried and at which I failed.
What is a lady in her thirties to do? Even the so-called expert hobby bloggers have written us off.
Now I’m really fed up. I can’t even face putting up my shelves. For the four hundredth time. Still, I’d better do it soon or my landlord might change his mind and rent this place out to a DIY whizz. I finish the last of the choccy biccies and set to. As I’ve seen on YouTube, I mark with a pencil where I want the holes for the screws. So far, so good. People do this day in, day out all around the world. How hard can it be? I get out my fancy new drill and switch it on. God it terrifies me. Still, if I don’t do this no one will. I lean in and drill two holes in the wall. Not bad, if I say so myself. I blow the dust out of them and am surprised to see that I have a lovely view of my bedroom through them. Looks like I’ve drilled into the wall and straight out the other side. Bollocky bum. Didn’t see that on YouTube. There must be a special and different way of tackling paper-thin walls. I put the drill away. I’m clearly not an independent and capable woman with power tools. I’m a stereotypical DIY disaster zone. Damn. I should do what my mum does and ‘get a man in’.
I call Charlie. She’ll cheer me up. We organise to have a coffee before we both head into work. I’ll fix the holes in the wall later. Or tomorrow. Or somehow turn them into a feature.
Chapter Nineteen
Charlie makes me laugh and she’s feeling all loved-up as she’s still basking in the Gary Barlow afterglow. By the time I start my shift, I’m feeling better again too. More or less. We’re busy, as always, and the evening flies by. We finally start quietening down at about ten o’clock and that’s when Mason rocks up.
Nudging me in the ribs, Charlie says, ‘Shagger’s here.’
This, I already know. We have fancy cars galore that turn up here, but my ear seems to have very quickly become attuned to Mason’s motor. Knowing Charlie, she probably calls it the shagmobile or something.