I’VE had trouble with beds before. On one particular occasion I built the frame of a cast iron day bed from Ikea in the small bedroom only to discover the small bedroom was too small.
I trapped myself within the girders, unable to open the door and only escaped by dismantling it. We subsequently gave it away.
But this was a simple wood framed bed, size single, delivered flat-pack, along with a mattress, with no possibility of entrapment. Even the instructions seemed straight forward. A small boy could do it.
It was put together with bits of dowling and screws of a fearsome length that were tightened with the inevitable allen key, most sadistic DIY device known to man. You can shred your fingers on an allen key attempting to tighten a reluctant screw.
These were so reluctant I shredded my fingers and was down to the bone before I gave up. The instructions were clear. But where was a small boy when I needed one?
The problem was that the four-inch joining screws didn’t fit the nuts they were supposed to. Or was it me? Was I doing something wrong?
Last year I had sworn never again to attempt do-it-yourself but we are having to restructure the house because Maria’s sister and her husband are visiting from America and bringing with them a friend.
After our daughters moved out we changed the interior to suit our needs. One bedroom became my office and another a dressing room and there was still space left over. Now we had to reclaim the dressing room and put a bed in it. One that, so far, defied construction.
I drove to the Pet Supplies and DIY store in Honley. Down the steps and into Aladdin’s cave. Well, several caves, actually. All packed with anything you could possibly want for jobs around the house, including that most important item – advice.
I explained my problem to Martin and showed him the screw and nut.
“They refuse to go in,” I said.
“I’m not surprised,” he said. “They’re the wrong size.”
At least it wasn’t me that was incompetent.
He supplied new screws that worked a treat and then all that was necessary was to screw the wooden slats to the frame. Construction complete.
My good humour lasted until I climbed into my own bed later. Maria was already ensconced, reading a magazine.
“By the way, when I got in, something fell out,” she said.
“Pardon?”
“It dropped on the floor.”
Midnight was not the time I would have picked to go rooting about on hands and knees but I had to look.
And found a silver screw. On closer inspection I saw the metal crossbeam was hanging loose beneath the frame. I thought it had been squeaking a bit in recent weeks.
But how secure was it? How long would it last before collapsing with a clang? And where was the allen key?
I lay on my back on the floor, gazed at the ceiling and said: “Thank you, God.”
Another faulty bed that needed a repair. But I couldn’t really complain. I’d built this one, too, three years ago.
This was a sign. From now on, there really will be no more DIY.
