Bernard O'Shea: Yes, the hairdryer exploded and went on fire, but I still fixed it

Bernard O'Shea: 'If only I had the gumption when I was seventeen to think about becoming a plasterer or electrician, I would now be a wanted man'. Picture: Moya Nolan

If I had a time machine, I’d travel back in time and get a trade. I might not be any good at it, but at least I’d know I’d have a tangible skill. I watch so many DIY programs, yet the extent of my skills is changing light bulbs as long as those lightbulbs aren’t screw-in-type ones. I’ve broken a few of them.

We’re currently on the last stretch of renovating a house, and there are times when I look enviously at the tradespeople. Fixing and making things. Anyone involved in the construction game right now will tell you that skilled tradespeople are in such short supply and constantly on the outlook. If only I had the gumption when I was seventeen to think about becoming a plasterer or electrician, I would now be a wanted man. I’ve no excuses, either. Loads of my friends have mixed trades throughout their working lives.

My problem with DIY is that my brain knows what to do — it’s just that my hands won’t do it. This goes for dancing, sports and generally all physical activities. I once put up a shelf for my wife that was OK if she didn’t put anything on it. I tried to explain to her that where she wanted it (in the bathroom) was only plasterboard; if anything heavy went on it, it would break off. This shelf is still used as an example to berate me on my home-improvement skills.

The good things I achieved in the DIY department are never discussed. I fixed our fridge, for example. Yes, with a blow torch, but I had to. The freezer over-froze and pushed out a piece of plastic, which made the door not close properly. So, I borrowed a blow torch and melted the bit back in. It worked to a degree of about 60 percent. The door closed, except it had to be held in with three belts I’d tied together. OK, every time you opened or closed it, you had you do or undo its belts, but it still worked, and it felt like I had given the fridge human qualities. I called him Fredrick. Fredrick the Fridge. My system worked fine until my wife saw that I had used two of her belts, and that was the end.

I successfully rewired a hair dryer to support an Irish plug, not an American one. Instead of her having to use an adapter all the time, I fixed it. Yes, it exploded and went on fire, but I still fixed it. I also once fixed a hole in the wall with Polyfilla. Confession, I also used Sellotape and a staple gun, which is beside the point. Where there once was a hole in the wall, it had disappeared, and I only must replace the Sellotape twice to three times maximum a year. Yes, I am lethal at any form of improvement, self or home.

Even putting flatback furniture together is a struggle for me. I’ve had Frankenstein moments constructing simple tables together while weeping angrily late into the day, squeezing an Allen key. During the lockdown, I ordered a flat-pack children’s reading seat. It had compartments for books and a little seat cut into the middle for the kids to sit on. When I eventually finished it, my then six- and four-year-old refused to sit on it. My daughter said to me, “It’s probably safer to let Mammy have a look at it first”. Nothing knocks your ego down a peg or two as when a six-year-old judges your DIY ability.

Yet I still harbour a secret fantasy. I constantly daydream of building my house, every square inch of it. I envision myself walking confidently into a hardware store and knowing what a 4x2 is instead of pretending. Asking builder-type questions like “Have you any large-sized hex-capped screws?” (I’ve had to Google this), walking out and throwing a timer into my van. As I drove off, the staff behind the counter would exclaim, “You see that red-haired fella who just walked out? He built his own home. Did everything blockwork, carpentry, electrics, and plumbing.” In the evenings, I’d sit by the fire fuelled by self-esteem and firewood that I cut with an axe in the wild woods where I built my homestead. During the day, I’d hunt wild boar for food and think about building an extension out of stone that I’d carve out of a nearby abandoned quarry. However, the reality is pulling up at one of those giant hardware outlets and buying one of those tubes of glue called “No More Nails” or as I like to call it, “So You’re Useless at DIY Glue”.

But I still have time to rectify my home-building weakness. I’m 43 now, and most apprentices last between four to six years. It could be possible, but I’ll have to rely on my better half until then.