Last week, at the age of 55, I finally surrendered to the inevitable: I did some proper work. For years, my default response to anything breaking was to “get a man in”.
Yes, sure: I am, technically, a man – but not one you’d trust to hold a hammer the right way up. Therefore: window stuck? Get a man in. Wonky hinge? Send for a professional. Kitchen bin overflowing? Call in outside contractors.
But you don’t write books if you hold in your heart the hope of a full bank account. So I faced a trilemma: pay an electrician with money I don’t have, sit in the dark, or try fixing the broken lights myself.
As I stood there, gazing blankly at the occult riddle that is the fuse box under my stairs, wondering if flicking that red switch would kill me or save me, I was struck by that rarest of feelings: sympathy for Keir Starmer, who faces the same three options: accept darkness as the new normal, keep spending imaginary money, or stop shilly-shallying and get your hands dirty.
