Hiring a hubby. And giving my house a make-over.

Me no speak furniture. Non comprende interior design.  I’ve always known this about myself in the same way other people know they can’t drive a manual car. Or tap dance. I can, as it happens, do both those things but utter the words ‘fittings’ or ‘finishes’ and I will run screaming from the room. You lost me at ‘cabinetry’.

While other women inhale interiors magazines and have an innate working knowledge of French Provincial vs Dutch Colonial, I am not one of them.

A few years ago, I was briefly taken with the Shabby Chic trend mostly because I am already shabby and it sounded unthreatening. I bought a few mis-matched floral cushions and a distressed 2^nd hand bookshelf before I lost interest.

For a while I left design decisions to my aesthetically minded husband but this wasn’t ideal because if he had his way, we’d be living in a large white room with no furniture in it.  When he reads this, he’ll say I’m exaggerating which is true but only by a little bit.

Like so many couples, we’ve lugged the mismatched furniture we brought into our relationship from house to house, acquiring more crap along the way. And although we’ve made a few attempts to pull it all together, we could never agree on anything so we defaulted to the mismatched status quo.

And then, something surprising happened. It started, like home things so often do, with a small decision to move a bookcase which snowballed into a full blown interior make-over. The best part is that my husband was really busy and just left me to it. No negotiation. No consultation. No handbrake.

By having the space to make decisions, I was forced to dig deep to discover skills I didn’t know I possessed. Like how to get in and out of IKEA in under six hours. How to hire tradespeople.  And how to use colour and texture. I had help with that part in the form of my friend Louise Bell (right), my creative director throughout my magazine career. Most editors have a Louise, someone who can visually interpret their vision for the magazine and bring it to life on a page. Over the decade we worked together, she knew precisely what I meant when I looked at a layout and said, “I like the photo but the font is just too…..sad. And can we make the whole thing swoosh more? Stronger? With some movement?”

Daily, she turned my gobbeldegook into graphic design-speak. Other times, she’d translate for the fashion department and often, she’d tell me I was wrong. I respond well to firm bossing by people I trust.  So when I remembered that Louise has an online homewares boutique called Tabletonic (store here) (blog here) I begged her to come over and boss me again.  It was sublime. Like being in my own home-makeover show.

Before she arrived, I conquered the Everest of IKEA. Brave and alone. Like a warrior. I went early and left five hours later sustained only by adrenaline, a small piece of Swedish Apple cake from the cafe and intense feelings of inadequacy.

The showroom part was fun. Lots of furniture styled appealingly. Then I got to the bit where you ‘pick’ the big flat-packed items off the shelves and the wheels fell off my confidence. I believe this happened somewhere around Aisle 32 location 17 where I had to haul a 1000kg double bed frame off the shelf, along with two massive cupboards, eight drawers, six baskets and a bookshelf. As I attempted to steer four heaving flat-bed trollies to the checkout, half my boxes fell off and I was helped by….a pregnant lady and her son. Bless them.

At the home delivery counter, there was bad news. “This box has split. We can’t deliver it,” said the man. “You’ll have to talk to them at Exchanges. ” Right.  “We can’t swap it,” said the exchange lady. “You’ll have to return it and pick yourself another one from the shelf.”

And then? I lost it. “But the box split because I had to pull it down by myself!” I wailed, panic rising. “If I have to get another one, the same thing will happen! I’ve been here for five hours! I’m little! And alone! What kind of people can lift these boxes alone!?!” The kindly sales assistant took pity on me. “Don’t worry love, I’ll get one of the boys to get it and I’ll sort it out. I can see you’ve had a long day.” She patted my hand and I nearly pashed her.

All that was left to do was hire-a-hubby. A single friend suggested this after she used the service to help do some odd jobs and raved about it.

My hired hubby arrived one morning right before my actual one went to work. They shook hands. It was very civil as far as polygamy goes. And then it was pure heaven. Odd jobs were done without any excuses, swear words or endless trips to the hardware store for forgotten parts. Furniture was assembled and moved around. Pictures were hung. Awnings were cleaned. And I didn’t even have to make encouraging noises or be grateful. I may now even be ready to tackle a renovation. No, wait.

[note: this post is not sponsored by Ikea, Hire-A-Hubby, Table-Tonic, Real Living magazine or Swedish Apple Cake. Although I wish it was sponsored by Swedish Apple Cake because I would have been able to negotiate contra. It’s the bomb.]

Would you describe yourself as handy around the house? Do you know what to do with a throw pillow and an IKEA flat pack? Do you need a hired hubby? What would you get him to do?

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