Putting up with self-assembly

It is a hard-earned perk of old fogeyhood, that one has long-ceased to accept homework from those in authority. While in small doses homework may be harmless enough, prolonged exposure to the substance leads to serious long-term complications. Indeed, several cohorts of mine were so brutalised by the harridans who dispense the stuff, they actually went on to become headmasters themselves; not least for the pleasure (one cannot help suspect) of exacting a little revenge.

My father had a particular dislike of ‘homework setters’, as he referred to them, or traffic wardens, police officers and council officials in the common parlance. I still remember vividly the day he silenced an unwelcome, would-be pollster at the front door, by raising a single eyebrow. His finest words to me were these:

With the exception of mistresses and High Court judges, never let anyone set you homework

Wise words, though I fear I have sullied his memory somewhat by not living up to them. You see, I have become a slave to self-assembly – involuntarily, I hasten to add. It all began last year, in my regular, unsuccessful conflict with officialdom (she who must be obeyed). It transpired I had invested in an outdoor trampoline for our youngest; a fact unbeknownst to me, until the arrival of the monthly bank statement.

‘Easy assembly in one hour’ proclaimed the box confidently – well, perhaps for any budding Da Vinci’s out there. It took me 12 hours to complete, accompanied by several cuts and bruises, and the most comprehensive cacophony of swearing the English Language can muster.

I vowed that day, never again would I permit myself to be given homework against my will – and yet, there I was again last weekend, this time with a self-assembly exercise bike (one I guarantee will collect dust rather quickly!).

Why is it upon reaching, shall we say ‘a certain maturity’, that friends and relatives seem to believe you desire nothing finer than frittering your time away deciphering mistranslated instruction manuals, searching for missing pieces, or conscripting ‘assistants’ to help you? In my darker moments, I suspect a conspiracy is underfoot; a suspicion compounded by the sotto voce mutterings I sometimes catch, ‘It’ll give him something to do!’

Along with unanaesthetized root canal work, and accidentally flicking through the Guardian, self-assembly is the most joyless activity I’ve ever had the misfortune to partake in. Bad gifts are one thing, but at least white elephants usually come prefabricated.

The worst part of this nightmare is that the calendar seems to afford limitless opportunities for the magnanimous to display their largesse: parties, birthdays, anniversaries, the gifting season (or Christmas, as I think it was once known), and, dare I say retirement? In the last six months alone, I was held to ransom by a self-assembly barbecue, kids’ swimming pool, and my wife’s latest whim – an outdoor fireplace.

Whatever happened to just buying something as is? Along with the rest of the planet, it appears Britain has outsourced productivity to China – the forlorn hope presumably being that it will appease the little climate goblin, Greta? Sweden used to export Britt Ekland – now the best it can manage is third-form lectures on global warming, and an IKEA coffee table you pray you slash your wrists on.

If this is the way the wind is blowing, then what’s next? Building our next eco-friendly vehicles out of Lego? Why not houses, computers, or even pets? During my last sojourn with the NHS, I was half-expecting the surgeon who operated on my herniated disk, to slip me the scalpel and smugly quip, ‘Just put it back together yourself, old boy.’

With every weekend now as forsaken as the last, and with twittering cries of, ‘It won’t take you long, you’re a man aren’t you?!’ ringing in my ears, I’ve decided it’s time to take drastic action – fight DIY fire with DIY fire. I fully intend to return the favour (with interest) to everyone who has set me homework over the past 12 months. Let’s see how keen they are when it’s their Sunday gin and Times’ crossword being interrupted.

As bleak as the outlook is, the one bright spot on the horizon is the inevitable onset of chronic arthritis – at which point, I can hang up my screwdriver with a clear conscience. Until such time however, let battle commence!