Tim Dowling: I do have principles. Rule one is to avoid DIY at all costs

Tim Dowling: My Guiding Principle Is to Steer Clear of DIY Whenever Possible

The Art of Doing Nothing

Tim Dowling - Looking back at the household problems I've encountered over the past twelve months, I can confidently state that none of them resolved on their own. Yet several have somehow become inconsequential – proof of my personal approach to home repairs: begin by doing absolutely nothing. The brick wall that crumbled has since been swallowed by climbing ivy, rendering it nearly invisible. Meanwhile, the pergola that was halfway to collapse sits exactly where it was, though the wisteria it once supported has perished, meaning it can continue its slow descent without my interference. As for the garden door that refused to budge, it eventually found a solution of sorts – one morning it simply swung open. Two weeks later it reversed course, locking itself shut once more. Still, I maintain that this single disappointment doesn't invalidate my entire hands-off strategy.

I'll concede that occasionally I've impulsively considered taking action. An axe aimed at the pergola crossed my mind. I've also scrolled through introductory bricklaying tutorials and dug through storage cabinets hunting for my trowel. These remain fleeting impulses, however. I remember well the damage my previous attempts at intervention have wrought.

The Charger Conundrum

Then my spouse and I begin the bewildering and discouraging journey of securing an electric vehicle charging point for our driveway. Nothing proves straightforward, except perhaps the initial payment phase. I must submit photographs documenting where the charger will sit and showing our electrical panel. "Now it requires us to record a video of the route connecting both locations," I remark, "and forward it along." "Which direction should we take?" my wife asks. "Through the front entrance or the garden door?" "The garden door is jammed closed," I reply. "Regardless, I'm refusing to participate."

My wife records the footage instead. At the same time, I need to create a hand-sketched layout of our ground floor. I deliberately produce a substandard version, reasoning: I don't work for your company. Early the following morning, inspiration strikes. Once fully dressed, I locate my trowel and head outside – not toward the brick wall, but toward the problematic door. I wedge the tool's edge between the frame and latch while pushing; the door yields effortlessly. Clearly the latch mechanism doesn't extend far enough to clear the opening – it requires assistance from a flat-edged object. The solution seems straightforward: removing the strike plate and carving away a few millimeters of timber ought to suffice. But I decide: forget that – I already possess the trowel.

When Things Get Complicated

Seven days later, an electrician arrives for the installation. He appears dissatisfied immediately – no clear pathway exists between the charger location and the fuse box. I consider this his concern rather than mine – I've already paid – yet he discusses installing unsightly trunking along the walls. I inform him my wife would reject such an arrangement. "This is simply the most difficult task," he declares. "What about," I suggest, "running it beneath here, through the wall, and – come with me …" I lead him to the garden door, reaching for the trowel now suspended on a hook nearby. "Through here," I explain, releasing the latch. "And the charger belongs on this wall. Considerably shorter, no trunking required." "We'd need to lift certain floorboards," he notes. "Indeed," I respond, thinking: we? Don't you mean you?

The initial board lifts without resistance – evidently marking a former plumbing or electrical installation, it's been cut short and lacks nails. However, removing it reveals an unsettling view of the brick supports bearing the entire structure. Having witnessed this, I anticipate restless nights.

The second board proves longer and firmly secured with nails. I must relocate the piano first. When attempting to pry it with a screwdriver, it merely fractures. "We require leverage from both sides," the electrician advises. "Hold on," I say, stepping into the garden and returning with another tool. "A trowel?" he questions. "It handles everything," I assert.

By evening, my wife joins us, and we kneel on the floor extracting board number four, still searching for an unobstructed cable path. "I notice you've removed the sitting room flooring," she observes. "A joist remains in the way," the electrician reports, examining beneath with his phone's light. "This one next?" I inquire, indicating a new floorboard. He shrugs. "I suppose so," he concedes. I can feel his enthusiasm waning, yet I harbor a determined urge to continue, hoping the installation won't drag across multiple days or weeks. Naturally, I will fall short of this expectation.