D.I.Y

My father is crap at D.I.Y. It appears my son has got this defunct gene.
When I was 12 my dad decided to build a kennel, many hours of blood (his), sweat (his), tears (my mothers) later and outside was the most beautiful kennel ever seen.  It seemed a little too good to be true, it didn't even look the same colour as the wood he had been pummelling two days before. Yes, turns out in the early morning, the local petshop got his business.
And so we fast forward to 5 years back (that make sense?) when we bought my son one of those beds, with the desk and cupboards underneath. 48 hours it took for us to put that together (dad and I) (it says on the instructions, one day two people), this time I did the bleeding (scars to prove) and crying. Oh and the holding thumbs when the child got into it for the first time. I've not slept much in the last 5 years waiting for him to come crashing down.  Now he's getting a normal bed and the chunk of wood is coming down. I've been replaced by said son and Dad and him are upstairs as I type. The two of them sound like a comedy duo, who aren't really sure of what they should be doing. At every whirr of the saw (I'm not asking why), I wince, with every brrrrrwwrrrr of the drill I shudder and with every clunk and smash of the wood I cringe. So far no  injuries to report but I'm assured it's only a matter of time. I love my dad, I really do, there is not a man in the world like him, but he's seriously not very good at wood and nails and stuff. His ideas are, the practice is lacking.
And I've just been informed they've made a cupboards. I would love it if I was to eat humble pie, I'd scoff my words up and apologise for this blog, but until I see it, I will reserve judgement and get the bank cards ready for the local store!