Multi-Coloured Chop Shop
Decided yesterday to take the weekend off from any kind of writing, and catch up on some reading and odd-jobs around the house instead.
DIY tasks invariably mean a trip to the hardware shop. This in turn affords me the opportunity to walk aisles of tools and building gear, chin-stroking and pretending I'm not the kind of hopelessly arty type who thinks a screwdriver only comes in a glass. So stocked up on equipment and re-convinced of my own manliness, it was off home to fix the bathroom tiles. Then came the major task of the weekend - sorting out my son's bike.
The little lad's of an age now where he wants to pedal around furiously chasing his sister. Being a writer, however (and therefore permamently broke), I've had to wait for the right time of year to roll around, when I could get him a bike gratis.
As I'd expected, finding one the right size and in perfect working order was no trouble at all - which was all well and good except that the freebie in question was pink.
So after lunch today I sat on the porch with a tool kit and stripped the whole thing down to just the frame. Every now and again, as I sanded the paint off, one of the kids would drift past and express pleasure that I was now lightly dusted a glittery girly colour, but the real coos of appreciation were saved for later ... when the spray paint came out.
The bike is now a boy-friendly jet black. What remains of the spray paint has been carefully concealed, to ensure our golden labrador remains golden.
My daughter, meanwhile, wins this weekend's prize for ego-stroking, with her question, 'Dad, why are you so handy?'. Extra chocolate for her later, once I've stopped laughing.
I think I'll wait until she's back at school before I attempt to reassemble the bike. I've a feeling my curses and violent fitting when the brakes fail and the wheels fall off may spoil her mental picture of me as Mr Fixit. Let's face it, it's an image only slightly more rose-tinted than my clothes and hair.
DIY tasks invariably mean a trip to the hardware shop. This in turn affords me the opportunity to walk aisles of tools and building gear, chin-stroking and pretending I'm not the kind of hopelessly arty type who thinks a screwdriver only comes in a glass. So stocked up on equipment and re-convinced of my own manliness, it was off home to fix the bathroom tiles. Then came the major task of the weekend - sorting out my son's bike.
The little lad's of an age now where he wants to pedal around furiously chasing his sister. Being a writer, however (and therefore permamently broke), I've had to wait for the right time of year to roll around, when I could get him a bike gratis.
As I'd expected, finding one the right size and in perfect working order was no trouble at all - which was all well and good except that the freebie in question was pink.
So after lunch today I sat on the porch with a tool kit and stripped the whole thing down to just the frame. Every now and again, as I sanded the paint off, one of the kids would drift past and express pleasure that I was now lightly dusted a glittery girly colour, but the real coos of appreciation were saved for later ... when the spray paint came out.
The bike is now a boy-friendly jet black. What remains of the spray paint has been carefully concealed, to ensure our golden labrador remains golden.
My daughter, meanwhile, wins this weekend's prize for ego-stroking, with her question, 'Dad, why are you so handy?'. Extra chocolate for her later, once I've stopped laughing.
I think I'll wait until she's back at school before I attempt to reassemble the bike. I've a feeling my curses and violent fitting when the brakes fail and the wheels fall off may spoil her mental picture of me as Mr Fixit. Let's face it, it's an image only slightly more rose-tinted than my clothes and hair.
posted by Pete Kempshall at 3:30 PM
1 Comments:
If only I had had the joys of bike repair this weekend. I may blog about this later, if I can brave it...
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