This evening after a couple of glasses of wine, I decided it was a good idea to replace my faulty exhaust fan myself, instead of waiting for a professional, or even merely capable, person to do it for me.
“I am a competent individual,” I said to myself, driven by the over confidence of perhaps too much sauvignon blanc, and marched off to find my screwdriver. I have one screwdriver, but it is really quite the loveliest of all the screwdrivers. With four interchangeable heads and decorated with pink flowers, my screwdriver gets things done in style. Theoretically.
Unfortunately, I had underestimated the strength required to actually use the screwdriver for this particular task. With arms that are exercised predominantly through typing inane blog posts or playing tetris, I strained against the screws embedded in my current exhaust fan, but it was a futile battle.
I nearly gave up when, after one huge burst of effort, I slipped against the wall screw and plunged the misdirected screwdriver into my arm.
But no. “I must push on,” I shouted at the heavens/my exhaust fan, while wiping my bloody arm on my pyjamas.
I proceeded to the garage, where my mother keeps her tools, and returned home armed with an electric screwdriver – that one must-have-item of the modern woman.
I was ready. I could take on the world, let alone an exhaust fan.
It was at this point that my neighbour pulled up in the drive.
“Hello,” he said politely as he edged away from me, taking slow steps backwards out of my vicinity.
“I have it all under control!” I declared, realising too late that this might not sound entirely comforting coming from a woman in moo-cow pyjamas, covered in blood smears, and with an electric screwdriver in hand. By the time this thought had fully made its way into my mind, however, my neighbour had already dashed inside and locked the door behind him.
Oh well, you can’t please everyone, and sometimes it’s necessary to terrify the occasional neighbour if you want to get things done.
I headed back inside and took to the exhaust fan with the drill and much excitement.
Ripping the fan from the wall I called out, “HURRAH!” Which is when I realised my mistake.
The hole behind the fan was filled with webs. And those terrible, horrible, most evil things that make webs. Spiders!
I threw down the fan and fled from room.
I have since filled the bathroom with Mortein and barricaded the door. Tomorrow I shall call someone to remove the remaining spiders and their webs, and someone else to fix the exhaust fan.
So much for being an independent woman.