Cinnamon and cinder blocks.

A case for taking your time.

I was putting up a shelf in my girlfriend’s apartment on Friday morning. She made pencil marks on the wall while I held the shelf level, the metal supports dangling beneath it. Invigorated by a cup of Rooibos tea, I began the installation. I drilled the first hole on one of the pencil marks. The bit I used was too small, and the hole I had drilled was too narrow to fit the mounting screws I had. I had guessed that this would be the case, switched my bit for a larger one, and widened the hole. A perfect fit. I drilled the second hole. Then, when drilling the third, I hit something hard. Of course, the drill is already drilling through the hard, concrete wall, and as a relatively inexperienced handyman, I never would have guessed that a problem like this could occur. I retracted and began the last hole, resolving to solve my problem later. Here too, though, I encountered the same problem. When the holes I drilled were only half the depth that I needed them to be, the drill simply refused to go deeper. I panicked. What if I was about to hit the building’s electrical wiring? Or plumbing or heating? Was there a metal frame embedded within the wall like? Did I need a stud-finder? (A much joked-about device used for finding metal supports behind drywall). It became suddenly clear to me that while I was perfectly capable of pointing a drill at a wall and pressing the trigger, I had absolutely no idea about the risks of drilling into the side of a one-hundred-year-old German building.

In a frenzy, I began considering my options: I could putty the holes closed and drill a few centimetres higher, I could turn off the mains electricity and go on drilling, I could switch bits and hope for the best … Amidst the chaotic internal dialogue, one voice told me to sit down. I listened. As I sat at the kitchen table and stared down the holes that were giving me trouble, I took in my predicament. After a bit, I got up again and shone a torch into each one hole. No metal. That likely meant no cabling or piping, either. No need to fiddle with the water or electricity, then. I googled the problem, and it seemed that drilling into a harder substance than one’s drill was capable of boring into was a common one. The suggested solution was to use a stronger tool—a hammer drill. This would impact the concrete and brick more forcefully. I had no hammer drill, and I felt that it would be far too daft of me to promise to put up a shelf, but only deliver four holes and a handful of dust. I decided to try and drill the holes again, and simply push into the wall with all my weight. Miraculously, the wall slowly gave way, and the holes were drilled to their proper depth. A few screws later, the shelf was up just above the couch in my girlfriend’s lounge. I set her projector up on top of the shelf, and I’m looking forward to our first movie night using it!

The night before, I hosted a dinner for my girlfriend, a new friend of mine, and his wife. This new friend is also South African, and in honour of our heritage, I made a classic South African dessert, Melktert. I tried making my own puff-pastry at home (Dad insists that authentic Melktert is served in puff-pastry and not shortcrust). After rolling out a simple dough and grating frozen butter onto it before folding and rolling again to create what should have been Paul Hollywood’s famous rough-puff, I was left with a royal mess, not pastry. I’d sunk an hour and some change into a dough that wasn’t working. The sun had set, and I began panicking that I’d have to run to the shop and buy ice-creams. Before I put on my shoes, I stopped, took a breath and checked the time. Though it was already dark, I had forgotten that the clocks had been turned back the week before. I still had three hours before my guests arrived, and plenty of left over ingredients to attempt a second go at a home-made dessert. This time I followed the recipe and made a shortcrust base. Sorry Dad. The pudding was just set by the time we ate it that evening.

It may seem insignificant, but I’m really proud of how level-headed I was in both of those situations. I like a plan. Usually, when a plan starts to unravel, I stress. I do everything I can to make the original plan work. My lack of flexibility often leads to total ruin. Had I used the original dough for my Melktert, it would have been tough and chewy. Totally unappetising. I’ve learnt to be flexible with my schedule or with loved ones, but I’m still learning how to be flexible when I’m running the show. If I’m responsible for things going askew, I tend to place emphasis on how poorly things are going rather than pivoting to a good alternative. I was ready to patch up the holes I had drilled in my girlfriend’s apartment because I was convinced that my plan was a failure when it was only half-way through. I am glad for the lessons I learned this week. I want to try and implement my new-found flexibility more often. (At my own pace. I will probably remain slightly anal-retentive for the time being).

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I’ll have to try the proper Afrikaanse Melktert again sometime, once I work up the courage. If you enjoyed this journal, please subscribe.