I say sixty-seven, but it might have been forty-five, or ninety-three. There were certainly a dizzying array, however, lined up on a rack in Stockport's giant Toys R Us. There were wooden stairgates and metal stairgates. Stairgates with double-hinges and three slideable sections. Stairgates with European-approved safety catches and a smooth-action side-handle for extra accessibility. Stairgates with extra-long reinforced slats and a revolutionary release mechanism based on technology developed by NASA. Stairgates. Feeling like Billy Connolly the time when he went into Boots the Opticians and was faced with seventeen rows of shampoo ('jojoba- what the fuck is jojoba?) I took a deep breath and got the measurements out of my top pocket.
Forty minutes- and several conversations with harassed shopworkers who were just about as confused as us- later we had narrowed down the choice to the only two that could be adjusted to fit our apparently funny-sized staircase (well it always looked normal to us but you live and learn). There was an 'Easy-to-Assemble' wooden one on the one hand, and on the other, a Heath-Robinsonesqe contraption supplied in kit form comprising seventeen constituent parts which were to be attached together using an accompanying bag of nuts, bolts, miniature flanges, and, I don't know, carburettors- the 'kit' looked like someone had taken a small hatchback car, smashed it up with a sledgehammer, and stuffed the resultant smithereens into an attractive box.
Easy-to-Assemble or Degree in Mechanical Engineering Level of Complexitiy? Well given my less than blemish-free track record in the realm of DIY (my greatest achievement was the overhead indoor bikerack, which served its purpose for an impressive two months before inexplicably giving way and sending a heavy mountain bike toppling from the heavens and rather painfully off the side of my head) this would normally be something of a no-brainer. However the former option was Easy-to-Assemble for a reason- instead of complicated nuts and bolts the thing was to be attached to the sides of your stairs by kind of sucker things attached to- get this- a horizontal bar set at ankle level across the width of the stair. So you would open your stairgate, baby in arms, and stride confidently forward only to stumble over the trip-bar with calamatous and in no-way amusing consequences.
Still, Easy-to-Assemble, eh? Even death-traps disguised as safety devices have their charms for the committed DIY-phobe. Fortunately for young Frankie's chances of making it to his second-birthday in one piece, his mother is made of sterner stuff. Ten minutes later we were levering the Heath-Robinsonesque thing into the back of the Fiat Punto and heading back to Levenshulme, intent on having the whole contraption in place in time for the baby getting up and setting out on his daily full frontal assault on our fixtures, fitting and furniture the very following morning.
That was three months ago, and the thing (oh you will never guess) is still not attached properly. Well one side of it is- the hinges attaching the gate to the stairgate are exquisitely realised and would be the envy of TVs Handy Andy himself. It is the other side- the all-important release lock that makes the difference between a gate and just some lumps of metal hanging forlornly from your bannister- that have proved more of a challenge. Presently the only thing stopping the 'gate' swinging open into the hall-way leaving Frankie a free run at the steep wooden Victorian staircase is... the cloth belt from Charlotte's dressing gown, tied at one end to the corner of the abominable contraption and on the other to the fourth banister-post up the stairs, just high enough- for now- to evade young Frankie's ever-curious grasp.
A sad state of affairs. But it's not all my fault, honest. You see, when I first opened the box, full of enthusiasm and only a week (OK maybe three weeks) after that fateful afternoon in Toys R Us I found upon laying out the bag of nuts and bolts that there was tiny but irreplaceable screw missing. Going back to the shop to change it (and then recovering from the ordeal of having to visit Toys R Us not once but twice in the same lifetime) added another three weeks to the job. And then there is the hideously brittle plaster on our hall walls (was this what the Estate Agents meant by 'numerous original characterful features'). And then there was the supposedly super-strength 'no nails' adhesive which appeared to have been made by a crack team of junior school children armed with self-raising flour and lukewarm tapwater. And then there was... oh OK I admit it, my rather less than perfect command of a screwdriver, as evidenced by the mountain-bike on the head incident of 2002. Whatever. The fact is we have a safety-gate held flimsily closed by a piece of cloth, and several unsightly holes gouged clumsily out of the walls of our house.
Still, at least young Frank has emerged unscathed from this catalogue of misadventure, so far. There was a scary moment earlier in the project when I walked out of the living room to find him swinging from the bottom of the gate rather like that silent-movie clip of the guy hanging from the hands of Big Ben as it struck Ten o'clock. Still that was in the days before our innovative use of Charlotte's dressing gown, which has made everything safe and sound- at least until Frankie is big enough to untie the knot, at which time, I suppose he will also be big enough to walk up the stairs.
For that matter it won't be long before we can hand Frankie a screwdriver and leave him to finish the job himself. Come to think of it there's a few shelves need putting up and all. I'd better get that boy of ours a toy Black and Decker tool-box quick, before he starts filling his head with la-di-dah books like his dad and learns no practical skills whatsoever. Hell, there's enough damn wordsmiths in this family of ours already- time we started raising ourselves a Handy Andy or two, and got our ramshackle old houses in order. Now where's that old bike rack got to?
Oh. i know just how you feel. I bought a cd storage unit from a certain shop of Swedish origin last week. The unit is 5ft tall and 2 feet wide. It came in a box 4 ft tall and 10in wide. Inside was a bag containing over 100 screws of various sizes. It took me 3 hours to put together. Here's a couple of tips..
1. invest in an electric screwdriver.
2. encourage your sister/sister in law/neice/cousin/aunty to marry a bloke who loves DIY.
Posted by: John | November 07, 2005 at 04:00 PM
Well we do have an uncle who is a bit of a dab-hand with a Black and Decker. He used to come in quite handy until one day he emigrated to Kuwait, which was apparently the only way he could get out of putting up any more shelves for me mam. He's a bit nearer home nowadays but still refuses to travel north of Scotch Corner until he receives a written undertaking that all screwdrivers and powertools in County Durham have been safely decomissioned and put beyond use in front of independent witnesses.
Posted by: jonathan | November 07, 2005 at 04:15 PM
Is this Speaking As A Parent? Have I stumbled across the wrong blog, rather like someone stumbling over a death-trap stair-gate?
Great post - and, for what it's worth, I say go with the child labour idea. After all, Frankie's nearly two - he needs to earn his keep if he's not going to contribute to his board and lodging in financial terms.
Posted by: Ben | November 07, 2005 at 11:58 PM