The local DIY stores were overflowing with people buying - er - things to do with DIY.

I personally am not a DIY person; if only I were. If I was any good at it I wouldn't have spent a small fortune on a conservatory which had to be demolished and replaced by one built by experts.

I wouldn't have wired up the hairdryer the wrong way round and given my wife a curly perm (not to mention the fixed grin which now sits permanently on her face). The cat would still be alive, and I would have five toes on my left foot instead of three. (I manage to balance pretty well though, for those of you who sympathise with me.)

We enjoyed our bank holiday lunch so much that in the afternoon we got out a couple of sunloungers, opened a bottle of Netto's best £2.99 wine, and after a couple of glasses laid back and relaxed.

Just as my dreams of Demi Moore and me swimming in the Caribbean began to materialise, the entire neighbourhood erupted with the sound of garden machinery. Buzzing, digging and sawing noises were all around me. Every child within earshot must have fallen of their bike, skates, or rollerblades, because they were all bawling like mad. To make matters worse, their parents were bawling back at them.

All the dogs within a three-mile radius began to bark.

A man a few doors away was hammering madly at something which looked like a tree house which had fallen out of the tree. There was an expression of glee on his face and an evil glint in his eye. (It unnerved me somewhat.)

Sighing sadly, I said goodbye to Demi, got off my lounger and went into my garage. I picked up a hammer and saw and decided to try and fix that broken shelf. After all, who uses all their fingers anyway?

NEAL COOPER,
Cranborne Close, Mansfield.