I was still aching from Sunday’s high-altitude expedition up Mount Martinsell and yesterday’s ‘big dig’ in the garden, so I concluded that a morning gym session would be thoroughly unwise. I opted for a mental workout instead.
The dogs were equally exhausted, content to lounge across the decking and soak up the glorious September sunshine. After the chaotic upheaval of living in a static caravan all summer, they were relishing the return to a structured routine. Canine routines are blissfully simple, revolving entirely around food, exercise, and sleep. What an enviable lifestyle.
Once Karen had set off for work, I ventured out to the shed to collect my gear. I had decided to tackle one straightforward task before diving into the day’s admin: fitting three door-stops. A simple enough job, each requiring a single screw driven into the skirting board. What could possibly go wrong?
A novice DIYer might approach a job like this armed with nothing more than a lone screwdriver. I, however, as a battle-hardened veteran, knew better. I required a pilot hole—a technical term I lack the space to fully unpack here—which meant bringing out a drill with a fully charged battery, a precisely selected drill bit, a bradawl, a pozi-drive screwdriver, and a spirit level (chiefly to keep my own spirits level throughout the operation).
I strapped on my full tool belt and hauled in the complete drill box as a safeguard against the unexpected.
The first two door-stops went in within minutes. I was on a roll as I lined up the third.
Just as I gave the screw its final turn to ensure a snug fit, the resistance suddenly vanished—the screw head had sheared clean off. I immediately cursed the cheap, substandard screws supplied in the packet. Naturally, it was a manufacturing flaw; it couldn’t possibly have been caused by over-tightening or hitting a concealed metal object, like a masonry nail in the wall.
For a fleeting moment, I considered leaving the sheared shaft embedded in the timber. Nobody would notice three millimetres of sharp steel protruding from the wall, and I reasoned I could cleverly disguise my error with a strategically placed plant pot. After all, it would be hidden behind the door whenever it was open.
“No,” I lectured myself. “If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing properly.”
Though as I stared at the damage, I realised I hadn’t done it properly, and it now felt like a job that hadn’t been worth starting in the first place. Who actually needs door-stops, anyway?
I determined that the threaded stump must be extracted. There was just enough metal exposed for my pliers to grip, allowing me to carefully back the offending thread out of the wood. With a firm squeeze and a deal of sweat, it came free. I drilled a fresh pilot hole—ensuring I avoided any hidden obstacles this time—and successfully secured the door-stop. Disaster averted. Job done.
Except…
In twisting out the broken screw, the jaws of the pliers had scored a distinct, scraped circle directly into the freshly painted skirting board. That entire section would now require sanding and a touch-up coat of paint.
I decided the wisest course of action was absolute silence. I retrieved a large plant pot, positioned it directly over the scarred skirting board, and wedged the door permanently open.
I also took the liberty of revising the classic tradesman’s motto: If a job’s worth doing properly, it’s worth hiring a professional to do it.
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