Not built to renovate

THE home maintenance gene is one I misse d out on.
When God sent my parent’s shopping for my personality traits, he completely left Bunnings off the list of stores to visit.
Everyone else in the family is incredibly practical. It really is just me. For instance, my sister recently threw a dinner party for us all and casually spent the preceding afternoon building a table to seat eight. It was a masterpiece. I, personally, would have only invited enough guests to fit the table.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the idea of being handy, it’s just that I’m not. So I’m totally addicted to those reality television shows where they transform dodgy dog-box flats (that look remarkably like mine) into palatial penthouses. Last week I witnessed a couple spend $15,000 on a room full of venetian blinds and mattresses. I couldn’t work out whether it was supposed to be the inside of a Bedouin tent or an elaborate setting for an adult movie.
The room would have been great for a family of narcoleptics, but outside that I couldn’t work out why anyone would spend so much money on blinds and cushions. Give me $15k and see how far I could make it stretch. It could, for instance, feed my World Vision kid for 32 years.
I have an idea for a new reality television show: Couples compete to build the best third world straw hut village with a serviceable well and access to cereal crop technology and health services. The winner is humanity and the prize is a standard of living for the villagers.
But I digress: I’ve been inspired to renovate my own little flat… starting with basics like painting and clearing the junk off the floor to assess what colour the carpet is. I also put new handles on the kitchen cupboards all by myself, which impressed family and friends no end. But generally, my sheer uselessness has meant I’ve had to pay someone to do it all. And that’s racked up the bill.
So far the amount I’ve spent could feed my little Ethiopian for three years. And I have been getting the odd twinge of guilt, thinking about how I’ve used the money. But I know in my heart of hearts little Solomon wouldn’t have been able to eat knowing I was living in a 1980s floor-to-ceiling blanket-beige hell-hole.
I guess this is all about priorities. To some people, $15k on a room is acceptable. To me, it’s ridiculous.
I may not be handy, but I do pride myself on being practical.