If I have to fix something, I start in the certain knowledge that I will screw it up - that it'll bend, snap off or roll under the cooker. If there are two ways to connect something, I will unerringly opt for the wrong one and fuse every electrical appliance in the street. Just as a cat somehow knows if a human dislikes it, or a horse detects nervousness in its rider, so machines can sense the fear in me. Once they have probed my psyche and found my weakness, then they pursue me mercilessly. Tungsten steel turns to putty in my hands, and iron to dust.
Props fall off, clutches burn out, pumps seize, demand valves free-flow.
And I stand staring, rooted to the spot, with a rusted adjustable spanner drooping impotently in my hand. Which is why, if you'll excuse me, I've just got to pop my snorkel down to the Dive Locker for its annual service.