One of the DIY jobs I am tasked with while me and the Missus are on lockdown is to regrout the patio. This constitutes a change in the balance of power in our relationship as it means I am suddenly trusted not to fuck a DIY thing up. Or the Missus is bored and she wants to be entertained while I crash and burn while doing something.
To be fair, my track record of DIY has had spectacular successes, such as me totally dismantling a 120-part Warren Evans three-door wardrobe and re-assembling it in a different room.
But there have also been less successful ventures, such as the role I once had as a student handyman in as Winchester department store. This resulted in thousands of pounds worth of damage to designer dresses when I had a painting accident, and me fusing the electrics on the entire first floor while drilling a hole. So the Missus may have a point.
To prepare, I watched videos on YouTube on patio regrouting and I ordered a trowel set and some pre-mixed mortar. When the mortar arrived, the Missus took one look at the bag and told me I hadn't ordered enough. I explained how it looked bigger in the picture and I was sure it would be fine. She countered by saying I over-estimated the size and usefulness of everything. I think that was a cock reference.
But two days in and It is sort of looking OK. I imagine my builder forefathers are looking down and saying, 'We knew he'd come good eventually. He can now leave them books and that writing behind him and be a real man with a proper job.' Or something like that.
Of course, I'm not saying I am the best patio regrouter in the world. But I am definitely in the top two. In our house. Of two people.
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