My grandmother’s house is by far the most hectic I’ve ever been in. In this sense of the word hectic, I mean large, imposing and architecturally intense. You know what I mean? Maybe you don’t. Basically, it’s the kind of house that makes you wonder what the go is. You can’t even really call it a house – it’s more like a small mansion.
Yet my grandmother behaves as though she lives in a modest suburban bungalow. She called me this morning to ask if I could help her with a jammed window that’s been bothering her. I agreed, despite not know anything about how replace sash windows. Melbourne based readers, are your grandmother’s similarly insistent that you can do anything around the house, despite the fact that you barely know how to change the bag in your own vacuum cleaner?
Anyway, upon my arrival, she sat me down for tea and a slice of homemade fruitcake and asked me about my job and my prospects for marriage – all in a charmingly grandmotherly way, of course. Then she proceeded to explain the finer points of the problem with her window, and asked what I knew about doors. Apparently, she wanted my timber door replacement services, along with my sash window expertise.
I tried explain that I have virtually zero handy person know-how, and that I could call a professional carpenter is she really needed a door replacement, but she wasn’t having any of it. In short, she thinks the sun shines out of my rear end, which makes a nice change. Maybe if I spent more time hanging out with her I’d magically acquire the many skills and areas of expertise she attributes to me.
Seriously, there might be something to that. As it turned out, I was able to open the window with a minimum of fuss. As for the door, I opted to not bother trying – what good would it do, really, except to burst my bubble of grandma-induced belief in my home maintenance capabilities?