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Shelf Life

 

Up until his 40th year, my father had managed to save the woodworking world the embarrassment of joining its legions of enthusiasts. That was until the fateful day my mother innocently stated that she’d like a bookshelf in the kitchen for all her cookery books. My father absently agreed to look into it next weekend. True to his word, that Saturday he looked into it.

 

It was to be a momentous day, both in my father’s life and the annals of woodworking history. This was to be the beginning of an ill-fated love affair between a man, a set of dangerous tools and a hobby he was clearly not suited for. But never-the-less at precisely 2:30pm my father set about the task of fitting a shelf with the aid of his boundless enthusiasm and a book entitled DIY for Beginners.

 

Now, when my father was deeply involved in a project he would simply lose all track of time. This was a job that shouldn’t have taken much more than an hour, but he managed to crash, thump, bang and whistle his way through to midnight. To my mother’s attempts to get him to stop he simply replied that he’d finish in “five minutes”. The neighbours had banged on the walls, but this had only led him to believe that they too must be putting up shelves, so he pushed on. He wouldn’t listen to me - or the revellers from an all night party down the street who were complaining about the noise! If it wasn’t for the night shift of the local constabulary, who informed him in no uncertain terms that it was way past his bedtime, he’d probably still be there now.

 

Come dawn the battlefield that my mother came down to was a sight to behold. In a few short hours my father had managed to destroy the best part of a partitioned wall and cover the floor in wood shavings, raw plugs and at least four box loads of screws. He’d also ruined four saws, two hammers and a plane. The shelf, my father had wearily informed my mother before crashing into an enthusiastic chorus of snores, was now erected. But by the time she came downstairs that morning, it had given up the ghost, along with the books, and was now lying in state in the washing up bowl.

 

When my father came downstairs and saw what had happened to his masterpiece he insisted on giving it another go. My mother, after twenty years with my father, was way ahead of him and said with an air of deep sorrow that she’d accidentally dropped it in front of a 16-wheel juggernaut. My mother’s heavy sarcasm flew freely and unhindered over my father’s head, and even as she wandered off he was already planning another project: A new bed. Yes, he felt she deserved that…