The thing about man stuff, is that for the most part I can fake it. However, the truth is usually that I stand in the garage for several hours, swearing like a navvy and hurling spanners about in impotent rage.
This current bout of spanner throwing was initially induced during the week, when one of my brake pads decided it had had enough and wanted to go explore the wide, wondrous world of the A52. Not stopping to pack its bags, or wave goodbye, it left my bike at something around (insert legal speed), never to return.
This had a few noticeable effects. Firstly, slowing down became a more challenging exercise than usual. Secondly, I felt my wallet sigh in resignation. After a tentative journey home, during which I displayed immaculate skills in not dying, I set about making plans to correct this troublesome predicament.
Admittedly, my brakes had been in need of an overhaul for a short period - say, two epochs - so the timing (if not the veiled attempt to kill me) was impeccable. Remembering that I now had a (meager) wage coming in, and having slapped my wallet into giving up my debit card, I set about the internet to accrue new parts in a radical fit of pique from my mechanical muse.
Now, since the invention of the motor car, my Dad has been a mechanic. He maintains a garage full of tools, junk, motorcycles and other man paraphernalia. He once built a boat from the roof of a milk-float.
A BOAT.
As such, I do not question his skills, knowledge or integrity when it comes to making combustion engines behave themselves. Some would think this means I am genetically predisposed to tinkering, fettling and general engineering-type tomfoolery. Wrong. Unfortunately, when tasked with a repair or maintenance, my knowledge, skills and patience only last so long. Genetics really dropped the ball on this one.
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| The extent of my mechanical prowess. |
Through the years, necessity has led me to perform quite unique feats of mechanical marvel, from buckling brand new bearings, to flooding the car port with used engine oil. Undeterred by these successes, I continue prove how manly I am, by taking my small collection of salvaged tools and poking them at my motorbike like a chimpanzee with a stick.
This was going well today, until Gayle returned from walking the dog and my inner man took over. Frustration, inexperience and stream of invective led me to turn the spanners over to my better half. I was attempting to display mechanical prowess in front of a woman who can strip down an industrial lathe and still have the time and patience to make glass penguins. Blagging it could only take me so far. But, in the face of overwhelming logic, I vainly held onto my manliness by letting her let me. Yeah.
So, as I sit here and stare at the thick black crust under my fingernails, wincing as my knees remind me they were not built for being used, I still feel slightly manly.
If anyone wants me, I'll be hiding in the spare room, learning Cross-stitch. Manly Cross-stitch.
You are shamed by the Ninja girls. SHAMED I tell you, now stick the kettle on, there's a luv.
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