So what impact when this final, all-reliant skill fails us? What then. We've always placed so much faith in ourselves in having this one final skill to fall back on. It's when this last dyke fails that self-esteem and the last fragments of confidence are stripped from us. It's a ruthless thing to experience. So let me tell you a little story of such an experience.

Work has been difficult for the last four months or so. I didn't work at all for the first three of them. It has been an all-round trying time with cash work being my only option. And suffice to say, such work opportunities have not been pouring forth during this time.

But then, in a flash, my horizon looked brighter. I moved to a new town with my girlfriend. I found a job in a bakery. I was in addition offered the prospect of part-time work with a car rental company. My fortunes had turned the corner at last.

Next thing, in a similar flash to the first, my fortunes again tumbled. But there was one significant event in all this work stuff that had a greater impact than merely running short of cash through no work. My last bastion of support; that skill I believed I possessed with unfailing confidence was shot to pieces and buried in one foul swoop. The event took me completely by surprise. It spun me in circles and left me gagging to this day with the after-taste of shame in dragging me to the lowest depths of pessimism and confidence I've experienced in a long time.

How brutal a world in which we live. You'll be needing some background.

In a brief moment of "chit-chat" with a woman employed by the car rental firm I mentioned earlier, my networking tree of employment opportunities sprouted yet another branch.

The woman, named Leslie, had just moved house with her husband and three children. Apparently the new house needed a splash of paint here, some wall paper stripped there and perhaps a few other small jobs, just to make it all the more inhabitable. Considering myself experienced in such applications and naturally gifted in the house renovating game, I advised Leslie of my availability and expressed vast quantities of enthusisam in an effort to clinch the contract. Leslie didn't hesitate and a deal was struck. Being no bimbo, I think Leslie saw the savings to be had by employing my services over those of a professional house renovating contractor. And besides, the tasks she had in mind were not requiring of one particularly skilled due to their simplicity. My efforts to convince Leslie of my expansive home renovation skills, knowledge and experience had inspired in her a sense of confidence and a realisation of the relatively risk-free nature of my employment.

In brief, there was little room for me to screw up! So Oh My God… just where was my crystal ball when I needed one. Reflecting now upon the experience, I can see clearly that I was doomed from the start. I really was. Laws of physics, probability, statistics and similar stuff based on factual certainties just cannot account, in retrospect, for how events progressed from the moment I walked through Leslie's front door with a head full of home-improvement ideas. Other forces were at work here. Of this I am almost certain.

Now I am prepared to concede a fatal error of judgement on my part in taking on the job. Firstly, I assumed, with absolute conviction, that Leslie, being English, wouldn't have the slightest slither of know-how when it comes to things practical in house renovation. A fair enough call really. But, looking back, the first trap. As it turned out, Leslie did in fact know her hammer from her screwdriver. In fact, Leslie knew her electric drill bits from her wire strippers from her paint emulsions from her God-damned screwdriver. So in effect, any thoughts I had entertained of "bluffing" my way through the whole thing, under the ideology of "they don't know any better" were horribly misguided. See I thought that even if I did make the occasional "screw-up", I'd for sure be able to cover my arse with a little luck and fast talking. I could always bluff it. Besides there was always likely to be a little chicken wire lying about, in keeping with its universally recognised, multi-functional property of fixing any botch-up! Very quickly each of these face-saving techniques was shot down in flames and I was left standing naked, exposed to the intensity of Leslie's enquiring mine. The game was up. I no longer had even the long sleeves up which to hide a trick or two. Naturally, it has only very recently come to my attention that my original assumptions about the English were a little off the mark. The billion or so pounds spent by this group of people each year in the DIY market I guess reflects nothing less than a national obsession with home renovation. I get a "D" for market research.

So now to my second fatal error of assumption? Never assume the wealthy have less of an interest in affairs of a manual nature. Need more be said?

My first day on the job and I was tasked with stripping wallpaper from one of the bedrooms. It seemed hubby had made a start on the wallpaper the previous weekend but had apparently quickly lost interest. Three quarters of the room remained to be stripped.

I attacked my wallpaper stripping with gusto and zeal. I didn't stop for a break throughout the entire day. I was sure to impress. I'd finished most of the room by the end of the day.

For the stripping work I used an electric steaming machine. The alarm bells should have been ringing the moment I discovered the machine wasn't hired for the day but in fact belonged to the family. (After all, do you own a wallpaper stripping steamer? Do you know anyone who owns a wallpaper stripping steamer? Go figure…)

So there I'd been for around 7 hours without a break. Steaming, scraping; steaming, scraping. My right hand had seized into a clinched fist position from gripping the scraping tool handle so long. Blisters had developed in the palm of the same hand. I'd been thorough and industrious and loved it. The wallpaper stripping steam machine works like this. It's very simple. You pour water into the cube shaped plastic tank which has a heating element on the bottom. It acts just like a kettle. The water is heated and steam generated is piped down a hose to a large plastic receiver at the end. This receiver is placed against the wallpaper, allowing the steam to do its thing. There are clear instructions for use of the machine on the top of the tank. One of these instructions is "DO NOT ALLOW TANK TO BOIL DRY." Bearing this instruction in mind, I'd been most vigilant throughout the day to ensure the tank did not boil low in water.

I finally got to the last little patch of wallpaper to be stripped for the day. I knew the water in the tank was low, but figured I'd nearly finished and there was no cause for concern. What I had failed to take into account was that the lower the volume of water in the tank the faster it would evaporate. That last little bit of water in the tank went pretty damn quick is all I can say.

It's funny though. There I was, stripping madly, when out of the corner of my eye I thought I caught a flash from the steam machine. I assumed the worst and hoped for the best. I stopped what I was doing there and then, avoiding having to confront the reality of the situation. I'd blown-up the wallpaper stripping machine! Sure as eggs, I returned the next day and confirmed what I already knew. So, how to confront Leslie with the news?

Before I can move on with my tale to day two, day one has yet to be completed.

To facilitate my wallpaper stripping activities I decided to remove a curtain fixture from above the bedroom window. With Leslie's consent this I did. Easy! However, Leslie was adamant she wanted the curtain rail replaced before day's end. This was despite my thinking that it would only have to be taken down again when the wallpaper man arrived. So day's end arrived and I was running short on time. Thinking it to only be a temporary event, and feeling a little hurried I commenced the replacement of the curtains.

This is where my day basically fell apart completely. Have you ever tried to drill screw holes into an old plastered wall? Me neither. So I was winging it big time. Turns out, one requires a masonry drill bit to drill holes in plastered walls. God knows what type of drill bit I used. All I do know is that I ended up with a wall full of over-sized crumbling holes and a floor covered beneath a layer of small broken chips of plaster. In just 10 minutes things had gone from bad to appalling. I finally got the curtains back into place, or at least close to the right place, but admittedly it wasn't a pretty sight. Not surprisingly Leslie wasn't impressed.

Copyright © Anthony Gibbons 2000.