Which I’m quite glad about. I did read “The Rules once, and, frankly, if I have to be that manipulative to catch a man, I’d rather take my chances on ending my days as the Mad Cat Lady of Old London Town.
Anyway – evidence of why I will never be a Rules girl, or a Created to Be His Helpmeet one, or even a Fascinating Woman (If anyone ever suggests you read a book called Fascinating Womanhood, or, even worse, Secrets of Fascinating Womanhood, decline. Forcefully).
My laundry lines broke, so I bought a replacement. Much to my irritation, one of the fixing holes from the old line is in the wrong place for the new one, so I had to borrow my brother’s drill to drill a new hole.
A man of my acquaintance (certainly not a close enough friend to let him into my house) said “I’ll do that for you.” Note, not “would you like me to do that for you?” but “I’ll do that for you.”
“No thank you, I can manage.”
“Are you sure?”
[Thinks: “I’ve re-tiled my bathroom floor, put several items of IKEA furniture together, wired a cooker into the mains, replaced a bathroom light switch, disconnected the kitchen clock from the mains (that was weird, that was*), and all without doing myself bodily harm or burning Rosamundi Towers to the ground.”]
Actually says: “No, I’m really sure. It’s only a couple of holes and rawlplugs, I really can manage.”
The conversation dragged on, and then he said “Well, it’s just that you give out help me, save me, be my hero vibes, so I thought you’d like a hand.”
“What? Erm, no, really, I can manage, it’s not difficult, excuse me please,” I blurted as I ran down the corridor to the toilets, whereupon I locked myself in and collapsed, howling.
Whereas if I were a Fascinating Woman, I would have tossed my head, given a girlish laugh, batted my eyes, pouted, and said “gosh, that’s so kind of you, I can’t possibly manage all by myself,” and then when he turned up with his drill, I would greet him on the doorstep in my prettiest dress, have a nutritious meal ready for him, and utter things like “gosh, you’re so clever, and manly, I’d never be able to do that.”
And now I will give you all a minute to think about that.
Stopped laughing yet?
Good good.
Instead of faffing about with nutritious meals and mascara, I borrowed my brother’s drill, and togged myself up in safety goggles (yes, I still look like a frog in them), measured, marked, drilled, refrained from drilling through my hand and impaling myself to the wall, put up new laundry lines, put a load of laundry in to wash and then hung it up and had a gin and tonic to celebrate. So far, the lines have been up for four whole days and have completely failed to rip out of the wall and deposit my clean laundry in a heap on the carpet.
Mr Help Me, Save Me, Be My Hero remains most unimpressed that I’d managed to drill my own holes in my own walls.
“I could have done that for you,” he said, looking like I’d just drowned his puppy.
And, before you ask, I have no idea what the ever-loving mercy “help me, save me, be my hero, vibes” actually are. I have never dared ask, in case the resulting laughter imperils a rib or two.
*The person who’d owned the flat before the Rosaparents had obviously got fed up with changing the kitchen clock’s batteries, and being one of those sorts of handymen, the sort who should have their soldering iron and screwdriver set taken off them for the public good, he’d taken the faceplate off the nearest socket, which just happened to be the one for the washing machine, attached two wires to the clock circuitry (two, not three, two, so, a bit lacking on anything approaching earthing), taken these two wires and attached them to the live and neutral points in the socket, tightened all the screws, re-attached the faceplate, sat back with the warm glow of a job well done and had a cup of tea. Fortunately, time passing, as it does, the clock died, so I got the job of disconnecting it and replacing it with a sensible, battery-powered, radio-controlled one that hangs from a hook on the wall, as is only right and proper.
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