I never knew there was an art to hammering a nail into a wall.
All these years, there's been a reason why every nail I've ever handled has forsaken me and collapsed in a mangled mess - bent out of shape and utterly useless. The failure of countless DIY projects centred around one ultimate shortcoming: a lack of technique.
I had naively believed that all it took to hang something on a wall was to aim a hammer at any random nail and hope for the best.
Apparently not. According to the wall's material, there are a range of nails to choose from, varying in type and size. Based on the weight of whatever it is I want to hang, the nail has to be inserted at a certain angle. Hammering has to be confident and methodical, executed at just the right rhythm, from just the right stance. It's a science of precision, an exact calculation that will forever be my shortcoming.
It was Mr T who opened my eyes to all the benefits that can easily be taken for granted when living with a boy.
Thanks to Mr T, my knowledge of how best to wield a hammer has greatly expanded. I now know the exact position to be in to handle a drill: legs firm and at shoulder width, arms parallel to the floor. I can read a spirit level. I can appreciate the wonder that is the electric screwdriver. I can understand why a look of despair floods Mr T's eyes whenever I suggest yet another self-assembly purchase from a certain Swedish store.
But these are not the only things he's taught me. Before Mr T, I had no idea that pressing a certain button on my car's console would make air circulate internally, and leaving it unpressed would mean that hot air was being drawn in from the outside. Thanks to him, my car's air-conditioning system is now beyond reproach. He taught me that there are many ways I could harm myself from an incorrectly executed biceps curl.
He's quite useful to have around. He can fix any computer and make sure the wireless reaches the entire house. He taught me to marinate chicken in yoghurt. He changes light bulbs, finds the TV channels when they disappear, irons my clothes when I'm running late and calls the plumber when there's a leak; all tasks I shy away from doing.
Of course, not all of his lessons are absorbed well, and not all of his suggestions are gratefully accepted. I still refuse to cook rice his way, which includes a dollop of butter. I ignore his request to serve his bread untoasted because who doesn't like hot, crispy toast?
I'm afraid to ask him what he may have learned from living with me. The difference between a clutch and a tote, perhaps, or how to spot a Louboutin from the telltale red soles. But I knew I had to risk it anyway, and I approached him with my most serious face.
"What have you learned from living with me? Give me the first thing that pops into your head," I said to him.
He didn't even hesitate.
"To make sure there's always ice cream in the freezer," he said.
