With unbounded enthusiasm I got on my bike and took off for Bunnings.
My purpose? To find – somewhere in the endless, massive aisles – the part I needed to complete a repair job on my fridge.
It was running hot. Had been for some time, but the decidedly un-frosty beer I’d cracked at the stroke of midday was the final straw. I had, of course, Googled some fridge mechanics, and nearly decided to call a promising looking outfit, Fridge0, that clearly specialised in my brand and area (Melbourne’s South Eastern Suburbs).
However my penchant – which my wife might redefine as ‘chronic obsession’ – for penny pinching kicked in and I began to talk myself into an alternate plan.
“If can service my own motorcycle,” I lectured myself, “Then surely I can figure this out too”. Besides, the sun was shining, and I was up for any excuse to ride. So, self-assured and full of bravado, I swung out of the driveway intent on saving myself a few bob.
I was to return an hour later somewhat deflated.
The part was not something simple to find. Neither was an Bunnings employee to help me find it. When I did manage to nail someone down, pleasant as they were (just like the ads!), it was not easy to describe what I needed to fix my fridge. I had received my Internet DIY Degree only just that morning, (that is to say, I had watched the only YouTube video I’d been able to find that seemed remotely relevant and useful) but the actual model of refrigerator that the star of the show was fixing was different by some years. Mine is a Samsung 26 cu. ft. Side by Side Refrigerator; the Texan handyman’s was a newer model. Also, it turns out, the US terminology used to describe the specifics, seemed arcane and unfamiliar to my Bunnings employee.
When, thanks to the wonders of mobile Internet connection, we eventually figured out what I was after, the young lady shook her head regretfully and apologetically excused herself, turning to face the next needy customer. The impatient one who’d been hovering in the background for some minutes, making everyone involved uncomfortable.
I pulled a sour face, grunted at the door greeter on the way out and, with the smell of cheap supermarket snags reminding me that I’d forgotten to eat lunch, I fired up my Yamaha Bolt C-Spec. I had to take some deep breaths on the ride home, staying mindful not to take my frustration out on the accelerator.
When I got home, the missus was her usual forthright self in voicing her lack of enthusiasm for a kitchen full of warming groceries and refrigerator parts. I briefly considered digging my heels in just to show her, but a wise little voice in the back of my mind managed to get my attention over the roar of my pride, and I made the sensible decision to suck it up and call in an expert.
After all, there were the gutters to clean, and I’d be buggered if I was going to pay someone else good coin just to jump up on the roof and do something as simple as that!