Up at a major initialised DIY chain earlier this evening, I bought myself a lifetime's supply of wall plugs. Not the cheaper own brand option, no sir, but the costlier -- and therefore better -- Rawlplugs (TM). Which surely demonstrates my growing maturity, innit?

By doing so, I believe that I've located an elusive edge piece in the great jigsaw of modern life. Yes, screws, and yes, batteries, though those fusty old dry cells (what were we thinking?) have been swept away by the now stylings of the white & blue Sanyo Eneloop. However, when a chap can't rub together a couple of 7mm brown wall plugs, he needs to take a long hard look at himself.

Wednesday
Restate my assumptions
Beauty is not the same thing as youth
— Divine Comedy, Note To Self

This was hammered home by reading this article and nodding along. His father built stuff too. I grew up in a bungalow which, when I was about 6, morphed into a house. That would be my Dad, converting the loftspace into a fully functional third bedroom complete with walk-in cupboards, wardrobe, TV room and double glazing. OK, he did once put his foot through the living room ceiling, and we've never let him forget it. On a good day, given time, I can put up a mostly level shelf. Provided it's not on one of those dreadful partition walls.

I may not be able to plumb, or wire, or do whatever you do with breeze blocks, but I do possess 200 brown, 160 red, and 200 yellow wall plugs in a natty plastic box.