Ah, DIY. The refuge of husbands everywhere. Last day of the premiership? You’ll find me in the shed. Need help with the children’s bath? I’ll be there when I’ve drilled this. Did your weekend, like mine, include a DIY row?

DIY is fab. A cheap way to get stuff done.

Cheap – in money terms. But what about in Dad Hours?

The weekend is a time when I like to chuck the kids at their father and do other things. I mean, spend time with my family skipping through meadows.

But this time of year heralds the pressing issue of The Garden. All house-related tasks immediately pale into insignificance before the urgent need to Sort the Garden Out.

So we bought a climbing frame. Or rather, we bought a load of planks that by some miracle will become a fort with a slide. No, no, that’s not the DIY task we fought over – neither of us are equal to that level of carpentry and logic. We’re leaving that to the professionals.

It was varnishing the planks. I shot the first sally, by buying, without consultation, some varnish. On the advice of the man in the queue at B&Q. She who buys the kit gets to Do It.

“It’s BRIGHT RED!” my husband exclaimed in horror.

“It’ll weather down,” I said, with more confidence, admittedly, than I felt.

We both silently began to paint. Quickly, like moths to a flame, or raptors to a carcass, the children arrived and began dipping their brushes in.

“This is madness,” my husband said.

And waited.

Clearly, I was meant to take them away.

“But I want to do the varnish!” I replied.

Silent painting.

“They’re dripping it everywhere!” he cried.

Huffily, I set the children up with their own painting station. For a couple of minutes, I was overcome with the sensation of being a brilliant mother. See, I’m as craft-y as the rest of em! I thought, with some surprise and a little smugness.

Then, this happened:

The metaphorical bloodbath of this weekend’s DIY.

“I’m taking them for a bath,” I announced angrily. “Boys, don’t touch ANYTHING!”

By the time I returned from scrubbing the boys, I was about to sue the makers of so-called “washable” paint. And my husband was set up nicely. Sunglasses on, Radio 5 Live, cheeky chair to sit on while he worked through the giant pile of planks.

“I wanted to do that!” I repeated, crossly.

“So what you’re saying is, you’d literally rather watch paint dry than spend time with the kids?” my husband said mildly.

“Yes! I mean – no. But so would you, it seems!”

“Shh.”

“What? “

“I want to hear who scored for Spurs.”

Is it true? Would I rather spend hours and hours on a mind-numbingly boring DIY task? Listening to the radio? Perhaps popping a DVD on the laptop? Being brought tea and treats at regular intervals? Winning the adulation of my awestruck children? Yet being unable to do anything kid-related “because my hands are covered”?

Now, let me see…

But, to be fair, as I write, it’s 11pm at night, and he’s still out there with just the moths for company. I’ve got to admit, I’m proud of his perseverance.

I will inspect his work tomorrow and won’t be afraid to comment on it either. After all, having willingly bagged the biggest skive of the weekend when I was desperate to do it, he won’t be able to retort,

“If you want something done properly, DO IT YOURSELF!”