One of my themes has been how a single dad struggles to perform tasks often associated with mum such as the mystery of platting a little girl’s hair or baking a cake. From my point of view such things are a foreign language – I know it signifies something, but what?
It is thus something of a disappointment that jobs traditionally the male reserve are to me only slightly less obtuse. Tiles frustrate. I put a few tiles up in my kitchen without a spirit level. At the time they didn’t seem wonky but on later reflection they remind me of counterfeit cigarettes.
The grouting in my bathroom has steadily been blackening from mould. I have tried bleach and some recommended potion from B ‘n’ Q without any real success. I found £1 grout in a pound shop in Kidderminster. Smearing the new grout over the old superficially solved one problem but left my tiles knobbly with grout that missed its mark.
My hot tap upstairs has a life of its own. It is liable to randomly make a ‘chunk, chunk, chunk’ sound when it tires of service.
It seems as I tackle and bodge-solve one house problem another pops up. What good am I if I fail in both roles?
With no wife to give me words of encouragement I turned to my daughter for a moral fillip. She studied the bathroom tiling and grout and noted, “You missed a bit.”
I will Do It Yet.
First published in the September 2017 edition of The Bewdley Bridge