In the old days, expert carpenters and joiners would build finely-crafted, solid furniture from sturdy English oak and elegant mahogany. They'd lovingly fit the joints together, smooth down those rough edges and gently pat the carefully varnished wood with a satisfied smile and a leathery hand.
Not any more. These days, you buy a box of cheap wood, a spurious collection of shiny screws in plastic packets, some bits of dowling and a screwdriver... and you get on with it yourself.
You do get a flimsy instruction sheet though, so you're not completely on your own. If your Swedish is up to scratch, or you can figure out the two-dimensional flights of fancy of an overly enthusiastic procedure-boffin, you might be alright.
I failed to leave the house. I had to arrange music for choir this week, so last night, while I sat in the conservatory with headphones clasped to my ears and my laptop balanced on my knees, the Intrepids dutifully got on with it.
They set out with the best intentions. Unpack everything, arrange the bits across the carpet in some sort of sensible order, check it's all there and then unfold the instructions, laying them out like some sort of annotated tablecloth in the centre of the room.
When I went back a couple of hours later, my Dad was furiously banging nails into a piece of wood with a hammer, while my Mum was looking for a tiny bolt that had shot under the fridge. A rickety looking skeleton of a cupboard was standing in the middle of the room like some sort of ramshackle wood-henge, and the instruction manual was crumpled in the corner, spewing ripped pages and sporting a giant bootprint.
I offered to make the tea.
They did manage to get it all assembled in the end. Alright, the shoe-cupboard doesn't close properly and the first-aid kit needs significant replenishing, but it's all there and assembled...
I wondered whether I ought to have helped. Is that what you're thinking? Well, you might be right, but I have a strange feeling that I would have made the experience much much worse. I don't think my flippant remarks would have been too welcome and my track record with practical tasks isn't exactly glorious either.
You have to know which battles to get involved in, after all.
Where did this whole thing of DIY come from anyway? What happened? It's a terrible idea! Did furniture makers in the 1970s suddenly realise that they could make a fortune by getting their customers to do the difficult bit of their job for them?
"Hey Mick, What are we doing, building this stuff for other people?"
"What you on about, Jerry?"
"What are we doing? It takes bloomin' ages and it's proper fiddly."
"Yeah. I'm always buildin' wardrobes."
"Why can't they do it?"
"Who?"
"The customers, Mick, the customers."
"The customers! Course! All they need's a packet o' screws..."
"They can build it themselves!"
"Yeah! Brilliant! Then, when it all goes wrong..."
"... and it will..."
[laughter]
"... it's their fault and not ours!"
"What's more, Mick, pack it in a box an' they can flamin' well drive it 'ome n'all; save us the trouble!"
"Brilliant, Jerry, brilliant!... But what do we do?"
"Crack open the champers, Micky boy. Crack open the champers."
One of these days of course, I'll be in the same boat, surrounded by punctured wooden boards and an assortment of tiny fixtures, wondering why on God's green earth, we have to go through this Krypton Factor exercise every time we want somewhere new to store our books and our shoes. I can't really complain until I've given it a go I suppose. If I do ask for help on that stressful day, don't be afraid to tell me to do it myself.
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