So great is our passion for doing things for ourselves, that we are becoming increasingly less dependent on specialised labour. No one can plead ignorance of a subject any longer, for there are countless do-it your-self publications. Armed with the right tools and materials, newly weds gaily embarks on the task of decorating their own homes. Men of all ages spend hours of their leisure time installing their own fireplaces, laying-out their own gardens; building garages and making furniture. Some really keen enthusiasts go so far as to make their own record players and radio transmitters. Shops cater for the do-it yourself craze not only by running special advisory services for novices, but by offering consumers bits and pieces which they can assemble at home. Such things provide an excellent outlet for pent-up creative energy, but unfortunately not all of us are born handy men.

Wives tend to believe that their husbands are infinitely resourceful and versatile. Even husbands who can hardly drive a nail in straight are supposed to be born electricians, carpenters, plumbers and mechanics. When lights fuse, furniture gets rickety, pipes get clogged, or vacuum cleaners fail to operate, wives automatically assume that their husbands will somehow put things right. The worst thing about the do-it yourself game is that sometimes husbands live under the delusion that they can do anything even when they have been repeatedly proved wrong. It is a question of pride as much as anything else.

Last spring my wife suggested that I call in a man to look at our lawnmower. It had broken down the previous summer, and though I promised to repair it, I had never got round to it. I wouldn't hear of the suggestion and said that I would fix it myself. One Saturday afternoon I hauled the machine into the garden and had a close look at it. As far as I could see, it only needed a minor adjustment: a turn of a screw here, a little tightening up there, a drop of oil and it would be as good as new. Inevitably the repair job was not quite so simple. The mower firmly refused to mow, so I decided to dismantle it. The garden was soon littered with chunks of metal, which had once made up a lawnmower. But I was extremely pleased with myself. I had traced the cause of the trouble. One of the links in the chain that drives the wheels had snapped.

After buying a new chain I was faced with the insurmountable task of putting the confusing jigsaw puzzle together again. I was not surprised to find that the machine still refused to work after I had reassembled it for the simple reason that I was left with several curiously shaped bits of metal which did not seem to fit anywhere. I gave up in the despair. The weeks passed and the grass grew. When my wife nagged me to do something about it, I told her that either I would have to buy a new mower or let the grass grow. Needless to say a jungle now surrounds that out house. Buried somewhere in deep grass there is a rusting lawnmower which I have promised to repair one day.