Aah, the instruction manual. The bane of my life. Real Men don’t need them, of course. Real Men can look at a cot, or a toy, or a wardrobe, and instinctively know how to put them together, because they have Real Man Brains backed up by a couple of biceps boasting some Real Man Brawn.
Well I’m not a Real Man. Instead of a Real Man Brain, I have the Brain of Someone Who Likes Statistics A Bit. My Real Man Biceps have as much brawn as stringy cheese. And as much as I hate instruction manuals, I need them. I rely on them to guide me through the emotional and physical trauma of assembling whatever it is that is threatening to break me.
With today being Christmas, of course, I have spent most of my time wading through a knee-high pile of presents, most of which need screwing and gluing and fiddling with to be usable; which is where instruction manuals, as awful as they are, are invaluable.
They are both precious and useless, like the Royal Family. I find the worst thing about instruction manuals is the sense that they were written by someone with little patience. They lull you into a false sense of security and then hit you with a single, mortifying step.
Step One is easy. Attach A to B.
Step Two is slightly tricker, but because you’ve completed Step One you’re feeling good about yourself and can even feel a little bit of chest hair growing. And is your voice more gruff, you stud?
Then there’s Step Three, coming out of nowhere to blindside you and slap you about the face with its confusion.
This is just for illustration purposes only. I didn't actually buy my child a gun for Christmas.
No matter how much you stare at it, or which way up you hold the manual, the diagram continues to make absolutely no sense at all. After twenty minutes of increasing exasperation, you attempt to make a start – and invariably get it wrong. Your frustration increases, and so do the frequency of your mistakes, whipping themselves together in a tornado of hate against whatever you’re trying to put together.
For example, I have just assembled a table football game for my eldest son. Out of twelve players on the pitch, only three are facing in the right direction. My hand is blistered from using a cheap screwdriver, and in my anger I’ve chewed through most of the packaging that the toy originally came in.
I fear that I am forever doomed to be a Regular Weedy Man.
God, I experience the same frustration way to often as well. Funny stuff.
Whoops! It’s the thought that counts
I think half the fun was the panic of running around the. House stealing all the batteries from tv remotes for toys… Then not being able to turn the tv on forth queens speech 