Crossing the line

It's a line that until today I'd never even considered the possibility of crossing, and it happened in one of those defining moments where I literally took a step back and said to myself, 'shiver me timbers, did I really do that?'

The line I crossed was the realisation that I could no longer consider myself a regular common or garden DIY'er, but had in fact morphed into a professional painter person.

How I came to this conclusion was a revelation in itself.

For starters, I took my apprenticeship, shall we say, and learned most of my DIY skills at an early age by, well, pestering my Dad to let me 'have a go' whenever he was doing any DIY work.

An avid DIY'er, his perfectionist skills and beliefs were instilled in me from an early age.

For example, whenever he was asked questions by either me, my brother or my long-suffering Mum that went something along the lines of: "Don't you think that to install a complete central heating system it would be better to employ someone like, you know, a plumber?" He would invariably answer by reciting one of his favourite mantras: "If you want a job doing properly then you're best off doing it yourself."

And we'd all look knowingly at each other in despair and disbelief, because whilst my dear Dad would '“ and indeed did - install the central heating system (along with dividing a bedroom in two, painting and decorating and anything else that was required at the same time) we were fully aware that if we knew what was good for us, it was best to go into hiding, as there was bound to be weeks, or months of ranting and raging in store, when things didn't go exactly to Dad's master plan.

Nevertheless, always inquisitive I often chose to come out of hiding and take the alternative route, offering to 'help'- although I'd rarely be allowed to do anything much at first, apart from watch and drive my Dad insane with questions like: What are you doing that for? Why does that have to go there? Why do you have to rub the wood down first? Why can't you just paint over the cracks? Why can't you leave the handles on the doors and paint round them? Why can't the wallpaper paste go on the wallpaper looking like lumpy porridge? etc., etc.

On many occasions he would groan and say "Oh, Lynda will you please just go and play!"

On reflection I suppose I was a girl for Heavens sake, and to mess about with decorating, gardening or anything else I wanted to have a bash at, that was a bit out off the norm, and didn't involve sitting around talking to a Barbie doll or something, was frowned on to a certain extent.

Eventually, I was allowed to do the grotty jobs, like sanding down the wood, stirring the paint, clearing up, and later, on a good day paint the skirting boards. I'm now inclined to think that the hope was perhaps that by giving me the grotty jobs, I would eventually get tired of it all and 'go and play', but I loved it.

It was of course a learning curve, everything looks easy until you try it for yourself, doesn't it? And I would constantly find myself berated with, "What are you doing child?" or, "No, no, no, not like that, like this'¦."

Anyway, my early 'training' stood me in good stead over the years, and so long as a decorating job hasn't involved any major re-building work then I think I do OK.

However, there was one exception to the rule and that was when, as a bored teenager, I chose to 'design' and build a brick fireplace and TV 'plinth' for my parents whilst they were away on holiday.

I blame my friend for the outcome '“ he'd made a similar fireplace in his lounge and it looked amazing, but then he had experience of the building trade so his would be amazing wouldn't it?

For some bizarre reason, this little nugget of information escaped my enthusiastic logic and as brick 'surrounds' were all the rage back then, and as I envisaged how trendy my parents lounge would look, I soon found myself rummaging through a selection of bricks piled up in our back garden; the remains of a wall Dad had knocked down the previous year...."save them they'll come in for something", I remembered him saying.

Ah yes, I thought, it will be a masterpiece...which would undoubtedly be displayed in Homes and Garden, with me on the front cover.

I'd listened to my 'friend' describe the bricklaying process.. "just decide how high you want the plinth, buy bricks, mix cement, put cement between bricks and leave to dry; buy two bits of wood to go on top '“ one for the mantle and one for the plinth" '“ end.

What could be simpler?

Ecstaticly, I then proceeded to blindly desecrate my parents living room, as the great misshapen wall of the Turner residence took shape.

That wall I reckon, without the aid of a pneumatic drill or a pound or two of Semtex, even if the house has been hit by lightning, probably remains standing to this day.

Years later, I now know the value of a spirit level, and the importance of correctly mixed concrete.

Needless to say, therefore, my parents little 'surprise' did require a bit of 'tweaking' from said 'friend', but of course by then the damage had been done, and not too long after it seemed prudent to find a place of my own.....

But this was a genuine mistake by an errant teenager, who meant well.

Fast forward to my 'project' or 'money-pit' of my current home, which has given me many a sleepless night as each 'simple-job' we've gone to do has revealed a bodge-job that the previous cowboy builders left behind...before they scuttled back to Dodge City leaving dust and mayhem in their wake.

It has in short, at times been a living nightmare.

So imagine my delight when finally, at long last one room was nearing completion, and I could do what I enjoy most about the creative process of DIY.... sand, seal and paint; it's nothing short of a joyous moment as I know that the end is in sight.

It was shortly after almost finishing this room that I realised I had crossed the line.

Standing back to survey my handy work I poured coffee out of my flask, sat on my toolbox with legs akimbo and, adding sugar, I then, without bating an eyelid, merrily proceeded to stir the coffee with a screwdriver, rapidly followed by picking up a piece of Kit Kat chunky off the floor and eating it! (To be clear, it was a piece that I had just that second dropped out of the wrapper, not, you know just a random piece that happened to be laying around on the floor).

It was at this point, as the implications of what I (by all accounts a refined lady '“ who believes that cleanliness is next to holiness) had just done sank in.

As the truth dawned and I reflected on my actions, I realised that I'd clearly been spending far too long in the company of builders of late.

And, although I doubt I'll ever spend over an hour reading The Sun, wear low-slung jeans that reveal copious amounts of rear end, or take to smoking roll-ups, I had to smile because now I knew for certain that I was no longer an amateur DIY'er..