I dunno what happened. I used to crave nightclubs. Dancefloors. Parties and drinks and the euphoria of thumping music, sweaty bodies, raised voices, and a big night out. But at some point in the last couple of years, I went through that cliched transition that so many of us experience in life. 

My idea of a good time now? A few hours to myself and a bit of DIY. Headphones in. Podcasts on. Ryobi batteries charged and caulking gun at the ready. Life knows no greater bliss.  

When you own an old house there’s always a project. Autumn’s project was among the more complex I’ve tackled in the 18 months I’ve called my home my home: I have two sets of twin split awning windows in my kitchen, right next to my sink. But when I first bought the place and moved in, I realised you couldn’t open them. 

Why? For some reason... a reason that still isn’t entirely clear, someone had nailed the windows shut. What’s more, once I pried them open, I could see the hinges had been painted over, and were clogged with decades-old dried paint. 

Week one I opened the windows, removed the nails, oiled the hinges and stripped the paint. It was an oddly splendid morning. Me, my podcasts, some noxious chemicals and a paintscraper. How could something so dull be so nourishing? 

I couldn’t wait for Week Two. I sanded the timber, dried the rot, caulked the gaps, taped the interior windows, scraped and oiled the hinges. When I found that one rusty hinge had snapped and the window sagged out of place, I bought an extra-durable titanium drill bit to drill through the metal and carefully refixed the hinge to the inside of the frame. Another satisfying day’s work.  

Week Three I primed them, re-oiled the hinges, lined the windows with draft-stoppers, and played Russian Roulette with rainclouds for the first coat of paint. I opened them ajar on matching angles, like sails in the wind, partially to dry the paint and partially to show them off to my wife when she got home.  

“Oh, wow... great job!”  

I could tell she was only acting impressed for my sake, but I took the compliment all the same.  

It’s curious to me how strangely relaxing it is —therapeutic, even— to chip away at a relatively menial DIY project. There’s something primal in it. Something so human about using your hands to make something.  

I wiled away hours each week, I exhausted my podcast downloads. And each week I was able to stand back and assess a little bit of progress.  

Week Four. The home straight. I began with a window paint scrapper. Someone previously had painted the outside of the windows without using tape where the glass met the frames, and there were areas where the wobbly paint lines strayed a long way onto the windows themselves. I’d done three of the four windows, flicking away the old paint with the edge of the scraper’s razor blade. I got to the last window. The most prominent window. The one you stare through when you use the sink. And as I flicked away paint right at the bottom of the glass, something gave way. 

It was less of a crack and more of a crunch. Maybe I dug just a little bit too hard with the corner edge of the window scraper’s razor blade. A month’s worth of me time shattered around me, as a huge split spread up the glass in the centre of the window.  

Ahhh yes. So therapeutic. So relaxing. So good for the soul.  

Until it isn’t.