Author: Liz Dawes
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There are pink jobs and there are blue jobs

Taking out the bins is a blue job. Buying presents is a pink job.  Changing light bulbs is a blue job.  Laundry is a pink job.  I don’t doubt that in some homes this kind of casual sexism is simply not true, but alas it was in mine, and herein lies the issue.  I now live alone, so there is no blue person to whom I may assign the relevant tasks.

I am not known for either my dexterity or my practicality (readers may remember this) so the simple fact is that when the blue jobs need doing I’m kind of stuck.  And by “stuck” I mean dangerously incompetent.  I can just about do the bins, but the rest of it is frankly baffling.

Take yesterday.  The hoover failed to work, and it occurred to me that I might need to change the bag.  I was able to locate a new one, which in itself was no mean feat, but despite a ten minute wrestle with a smiley faced bit of plastic called Henry, I could not work out how to get his top off. 

A not dissimilar issue occurred when I attempted to put some suitcases into the loft.  I have one of those hatches in the ceiling that is quite a way above my head, so I had to stand on a chair to open it.  What I did not know was that the automatically unfolding ladder is attached to the hatch and begins its rapid extension as soon as it sees daylight.  The only reason it didn’t hit me on the head was because as I yanked the hatch open, I fell off the chair.

While my friends are busy offering advice and solemnly promising there are plenty more fish in the sea, what I really need is for them to convince me that there is an affordable handyman on my street who is prepared to live at my beck and call.  For although I feel sure I can master a vacuum or a ladder given the right training and crash helmet, there are many blue jobs awaiting me that I already know will prove impossible.

They require man things.  Screwdrivers and paintbrushes and wrenches, none of which I own and with good reason.  Putting a drill in my hands is like arming a toddler and expressing surprise when half your relatives are shot in the knee caps.  I cannot paint the upstairs room, hang pictures, or put up shelves without risking life and limb.

But I’m beginning to think that my sympathetic friends might come in handy. Right now they are feeling sorry for me and I need to capitalise on that before they get used to the idea of me being single and mistakenly segue into assuming I am competent.  My plan is to wring my hands, look pathetic, and see if they can volunteer one of their blue people to help me out for the day.

Can I borrow your husband please?