The longer I live the more confident I
become that my research is now at a point where publication is possible without
any fear of contradiction. I am
therefore ready to state categorically that the accident-prone, heroically
stupid and supremely over-confident gene is in fact present in all human males
– not just those of my own gene pool.
Perhaps now that dinner comes about as a
result of no more than a quick trip to Woolworths instead of slaying a
sabre-toothed tiger, we need a substitute to prove our manliness and our need
to engage in DIY harks back to some ancient genetic blueprint deeply ingrained
within us all.
There are some men who appear to have
evolved, but it only takes someone like me a short while to re-infect them. My father-in-law is a good example. When I met my wife, her father Neil had only
a few mis-matched screwdrivers, a small biscuit tin of assorted nails and
tap-washers and some left-over paint in the garage. A few years later, he can only just fit his
car in the garage, has a garden shed, power-tools and enough DIY disaster
stories to fill a slim volume of his own.
People who grew up in South Africa will know
what a pre-cast concrete wall is. For
the benefit of others, it is a garden wall made of slotted concrete pillars
planted about four feet apart with reinforced panels slotted in between. In a country needing to keep large vicious
dogs in and other undesirable elements out, these economical walls sprang up
across the countryside in the seventies, got much higher in eighties and
nineties, and had remote-controlled gates and electric fencing added shortly
thereafter.
As can be imagined, the spacing between the
pillars is critical. To close and the
panels won’t slide in – too far and the panels fall out. I once saw a man pull the rear axle off of
his van in an attempt to adjust one of these pillars outwards the day after
concreting it in and there are doubtless countless stories about the accidents
and additions to the already colourful language of the nation as a result of
similar DIY attempts involving pre-cast walling.
In Neil’s case a corner pillar had sagged an
inch or two and the top panel had fallen out and cracked in half. Since this was in the bottom corner of the
garden and out of view, nothing much was done but matters came to a head with
the erection of the electric fence a few years later. A wall and an electric fence are all good and
well but a gap four feet wide and a foot high in between is a bit of a problem.
Fearing damage to the car should we attempt
to straighten the pole I proposed a novel and simple remedy. I would purchase a section of expanded metal
BBQ grid and bolt it to the wall on each side, top and bottom, thereby closing
the gap and simultaneously preventing further sagging of the errant pillar.
Neil expressed some reservations about this
unconventional approach but wanting to impress on my in-laws my ability to
suitably look after their daughter I assured him I could organise all the
necessary materials and perform the installation myself.
This agreed, I arrived early the following
Saturday morning bearing pre-cut grid, concrete anchors, electric drill and
extension cable. While I unpacked the
car my mother-in-law made coffee and toast with honey which she served on the
patio, the summer sun already beginning to dry out the heavy dew that had fallen
overnight.
Neil eyed the BBQ grid with a critical
eye. “Are you sure it’s the right size?”
he asked looking dubious. “Well it has
to overlap the opening so that we can anchor it onto the pillars on each side”
I replied thinking it did look a bit large.
“I was thinking it looked a bit short” he said. I had measured the gap the previous week-end
after one of Neil’s legendary barbecues – the kind where the fire is lit at
dawn and you have to drink your way through a wall of crated beer in order to
get the meat on before dark – so doubt was etched on my face by this time.
It is an unwritten rule that the alpha male
must take charge in situations like this and Neil did not shirk his duty. Picking up the metal grid he made his way to
the bottom of the garden wearing the traditional dress of the South African DIY
warrior – navy rugby shorts and a T-shirt (bare feet).
With fingers hooked through the grid and
holding it above his head he picked his way through the still wet undergrowth
aiming resolutely for the gap in the wall.
I waited with coffee cup poised half-way to my mouth, hoping I had
measured correctly. The grid was raised
into position and I was relieved to see it fit perfectly.
“It fits!” Neil called as he turned back to
us, simultaneously touching the metal grid to the recently installed and still
very much alive electric fence. The grid
performed a high arc, coming to rest in the branches of a nearby lemon tree, dislodging
a few lemons in the process which fell to the ground neatly punctuating some
choice additions to the pre-cast walling expletives hall of fame.
It would have been impolite or injudicious
of me to laugh at this point but my mother-in-law had no such qualms. A dual explosion issued forth. The first remains a mystery as I thought moms
simply did not ‘do’ that and the second yielded up a coughed up piece of toast
closely followed by gales of laughter and subsequent weeping.
Those who know my father-in law will have a
mental picture of him with a lot of perfectly groomed silver hair. It would be an exaggeration to say that each
hair was standing perfectly to attention but let’s just say that Don King had
competition that day.
Returning to the patio very much more awake
than he had left it and with a wild gleam in his eye that belied his calm
demeanour he said “Well at least we know it works!”
I only found out many years later that it
was not the electric fence to which he was referring but rather to his not
likely to be needing Viagra any time soon.
