I am at my desk in the corner of the bedroom, staring into space, when my wife brings the electrician upstairs.
“There he is,” my wife says. “Sitting there doing God knows what.”
“I’m a businessman,” I say, standing up.
“Good answer,” the electrician says, shaking my hand.
“So, two bedside lights where those wires are hanging out, but lower,” my wife says.
“OK,” the electrician says. “Just mark the spot.” My wife turns to me.
“Have you ordered a radiator?” she says.
“We need to have a conversation about what sort,” I say. She looks at me blankly.
“White,” she says.
“There are single ones and double ones,” I say. “And also double ones that are the width of single ones. They come in a…”
“La la la,” my wife says, putting her fingers in her ears. “Just order one.” She turns and leads the electrician downstairs.
The radiator website requires me to open an account before I can buy anything. Along with my email address, it wants my profession. Among the choices are contractor, joiner, plumber, decorator, kitchen fitter and plasterer. Businessman is not on the list. After lengthy deliberation, I select “other trade”.
The next morning I have earmarked to refinish the kitchen table – I rashly promised I would, and I’ve already purchased a fair bit of equipment for the project – but I don’t like working in front of workmen. There are two of them building a cupboard by the side door, and I’m pretty certain they can see me through the window. When the electrician turns up, I’m still reading the manual that came with my new orbital sander.
“Sorry, I’m in your way,” I say.
“Two pendants there,” he says, pointing to the ceiling. “And the recess units over the sink.”
“Yes,” I say. “And the wall light, which is meant to be dimmable, but isn’t.”
“That’s blown,” he says, twiddling the dimmer knob. “Something’s shorted out there.”
“That’s probably because I wired it in myself,” I say. “I wanted to be helpful, but I’ve wasted my time, and yours.”
“No, you haven’t, Tim,” he says. “You’ve learned something.”
“I don’t think I have,” I say.
“Next time you’ll check things more carefully,” he says.
At lunchtime, I wake the oldest one so he can help me carry the table top into the garden, out of sight. My wife and I bought the table 20 years ago from a workshop that was getting rid of it. It was gouged, scarred, dirty and stained with splodges of old paint, but it was about the right size for the kitchen. In the intervening decades I’ve had two goes at refinishing it, both a bit half-hearted. Today the table looks more or less like it did the day they carried it out of the workshop, and I suddenly find myself determined to remedy that for ever.
I sand for two hours, until my hands are numb and my shoulders ache. I change to a finer grade of sandpaper, and sand some more.
“What are you doing?” the youngest one shouts, leaning out of the garden door.
“Sanding,” I say. “Wanna have a go?” He looks at me, panting and caked in dust.
“Yes,” he says.
The next morning I am back in the kitchen, applying a second coat of finishing oil to the smooth, clean surface of the table while the electrician stands on a ladder above me.
“I’m going out,” my wife says. “Need anything?”
“Super fine steel wool,” I say. “For between the coats.”
“Where am I supposed to get that?” she says.
“Quadruple zero, I believe that’s the designation,” the electrician says.
“Yeah,” I say.
“What’s wrong with this?” my wife says, picking up a roll of steel wool.
“That’s coarse,” I say.
“He can’t use that,” the electrician says. “It’s not proper.”
“Ugh,” my wife says, heading for the door.
“Bye,” I say, rubbing off any excess oil with a lint-free cloth.
“Zero, zero, zero, zero!” the electrician says.
