I Can’t Handle It

And look at that excellent paint job. I really am hopeless.

You know that thing that happens where you go to the bathroom and as you try to leave the handle comes off in your hand trapping you on one side of the door and the kids on the other?

Me, either. But Tracey’s all over it.

“Mummy!” called our never patient Miss3 from the hallway.

 Tracey turned the handle and, instead of opening, the door stayed where it was and the handle came off.

 “Just be a minute, darling,” Tracey called out.

 Miss3 started banging on the door.

“I need to go wee!”

Tracey tried shoving the bits back together, but they wouldn’t fit. She saw the problem straight away – a bit was broken.

She ended up having to squeeze out the window above the bath, after which she managed to squeeze a fair bit of amused frustration about the whole scenario into a curt email to me at work, including how she was now having to push little Miss3 in and out of the window whenever she needs to go to the toilet.

I’ve changed lunches. I’ll be there soon, I messaged Tracey.

To do what? I’m calling Rob.

Tracey’s appreciation of my handyman abilities is both heartcooling and well founded. Rob is a mate of ours who has done everything around our house from building the balcony to refitting broken cupboard doors. Best of all, while he doesn’t work for peanuts, he does work for fruit – boxes of it we order direct from the market. He’s got a XXL sized family too.

I’ll be home in twenty minutes, I messaged her back.

There’s no shame in calling Rob in. Or if there is I acknowledged and dismissed it years ago. But I wanted to at least beat my chest and have a go at the door myself.

Arriving home I grabbed my tools, which consisted of a collection of butter knives, assorted paint brushes and a torch. On Tracey’s advice I also took a screwdriver, but that was really just to keep her happy. I shimmied in the window.

I’ll be upfront here and admit I’m not even sure I know what a shimmy is or how to do it. The only point of reference I have is a vague recollection of shoulder dancing in The Color Purple. Whatever shimmying actually is, I’m almost positive it wasn’t what I did to get through the window.

Unless it’s supposed to end with the person doing the shimmy on their ass in a bathtub.

“You alright?” Tracey called through the bathroom door.

“Yep,” I called back. I wasn’t. Not really. “Just getting my bearings.” Butt was pointing down, face was looking straight up at the ceiling. “Moving now.”

Half an hour later I’d managed to relieve myself in the potty but little else.

“Call Rob,” I said to Tracey through the door as I contemplated hoisting my sorry self through the window once more.

“Way ahead of you,” said Tracey. “He’ll be here in an hour.”

The only silver lining here was that even with all his tool-smarts and actual tools it still took him fifteen minutes to get the door open. So I didn’t feel so dumb. Thanks Rob. Mandarins okay?

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