Don’t injure yourself

With a month off work, Himself’s irritating DIY projects seem to be multiplying in their unguarded moments, causing Sophie White to descend into a rage haze

Himself is moving jobs and so has been on a month’s gardening leave, which means that my thoughts towards him have become ever more petty and hateful over the past four weeks.

To say his househusbanding is abysmal would too generous. The place is horrendous since his tenure at home. And it’s not the kids’ fault; he is, effectively, a stay-at-home dad, but with one crucial difference: full-time childcare.

The problem is his projects. When he said the month at home presented a glorious opportunity to “get the house in order”, I presumed he meant tidy the place, maybe sort out under the stairs... then I saw the toolbox out and my heart sank. He meant DIY.

His toolbox is hilarious. It’s pristine. It is so immaculate, in fact, that it could only be the toolbox of a person who knows absolutely nothing about DIY. When Himself is doing it, DIY stands for Don’t Injure Yourself. Also, the house was messy to begin with; throw his ‘projects’ into the mix and now I feel close to homicide, if his DIYing doesn’t kill me first.

“One would think before commencing a house project, one would tidy said house,” is just the kind of passive-aggressive venomous thoughts I’ve been having, as I pick my way around displaced furniture, discarded sandpaper, cordless drills and old nails.

My rage crescendoed last week when, while innocently walking around my home, I nearly fell down the stairs, due to an unnoticed DIY-related obstacle.

“Why would someone store a tray of white paint in a carpeted area?” I screamed internally. “At the top of the stairs? In a house with two small children?”

The thoughts gradually became more and more unhinged as the weeks progressed: “If only it was himself he was tripping up with his stray paint trays and cordless drills strewn around the place.” My demented thoughts keeping revisiting the fact that ever since taking out the life assurance policy, he is possibly worth more to me dead than alive.

The problem is that with these home improvements he is improving things somewhat. I’ll grudgingly admit it’s nice not to have to pay a painter, so I can’t take my aggression from passive to overt, which is deeply frustrating, and possibly even bad for my health. Certainly the mental health is suffering, but it’s also taking a physical toll.

At times, the rage is so taxing on the body, it can feel a bit like cardio — and not in the gratifying ‘runner’s high’ kind of way, but in the gruelling, unpleasant ‘I’m going to cough up a lung’ kind of way. I rage around the house feeling quite poisoned by irritation.

I realise that I may be in need of a system cleanser, which is exactly what this fresh, crispy Asian-style salad feels like.

“Ever since taking out the life assurance policy, he is possibly worth more to me dead than alive”