Falling in love with my handyman

Falling in love with my handyman

Don't take this the wrong way, but I have a soft spot for construction workers, tradesmen and handymen.

I don't fantasise about them. I don't sit at home alone all week and watch videos of the Village People singing YMCA (just on Saturdays).

But I admire them because they remind me of my own uselessness and my father.

I have no idea how many authors it would take to change a light bulb. It depends on how many you could squeeze into the room. None of them would change the bulb, but they might be able to write about their incompetence.

My father, on the other hand, has worked on freezing British building sites since he was 15. He is a plumber. For 45 years, he has spent his days with his head stuck down toilet bowls. Interestingly, he has also spent his nights stuck down toilet bowls. (He drinks too much, my father.)

So I have deep respect for blue-collar workers in Singapore.

Earlier this week, I called the local handyman and immediately got excited. It was like a date. I tidied the place and tried to appear masculine by wearing my 2012 Urbanathlon vest.

When you grow up in a family of manual labourers and you spend your days tapping away on a laptop, self-respect is a bit of an issue, particularly when your father occasionally suggests: "Why don't you get a real job, you penpushing pansy?"

So I put on my best running vest to bolster my manhood. It made no difference. I still looked like a malnourished Peter Crouch. Unperturbed, I rushed to the door to welcome the handyman.

He's plumb, scruffy and only appears to own one shirt. But I love this guy - mostly because he's Singaporean.

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