There is a specific kind of man who will spend four months watching YouTube tutorials before attempting to put up a shelf. The shelf will then go up slightly wonky. He will live with the wonky shelf for three years, telling himself he'll fix it "when he has a proper weekend." Reader: the weekend does not come.
And yet — and this is the point nobody seems willing to make in an age of aspirational home renovation content — the shelf holds things. The things stay on the shelf. Nobody has been injured by the shelf. The shelf has never, not once, let anyone down in a practical sense. By any objective engineering standard, this is a successful shelf.
The acceptable shelf is still a shelf.
The problem, as I see it, is Clive. There is always a Clive. Clive has a YouTube channel called Clive Builds Things and in every video he is building something immaculate — perfectly mitred corners, pilot holes drilled with the confidence of a man who has never accidentally drilled into a water pipe. Clive's shelves are level. They are stained in a colour called "Weathered Driftwood" that cost £18 for a small tin. They are, by any aesthetic measure, beautiful.
But here's the thing nobody says about Clive: Clive spent eleven hours on that shelf. Clive has a workshop. Clive's wife has not asked him three times whether he's nearly finished because dinner's been ready for forty minutes. Clive, frankly, has too much time on his hands and we should not be using Clive as our benchmark.
A Brief History of Getting On With It
The men who built this country did not agonise over whether the dado rail was at exactly the right height. They put up the dado rail, stood back, nodded once, and went for a cup of tea. My grandfather built an extension on his house in 1974 with two friends, a cement mixer, and what I can only assume was a fairly vague plan sketched on the back of an envelope. The extension is still standing. It houses a dining table. Family Christmases happen in it every year. Nobody has ever said "yes but the brickwork isn't quite right."
This is the lost art of the Good Enough Job. It is not laziness. It is not incompetence. It is a mature and philosophical acceptance that a task completed to a standard of 75% is infinitely more valuable than a task completed to a standard of 100% that you never actually started.
The Five Stages of DIY Acceptance
Stage One: Denial. "I'll get the spirit level." The spirit level reveals that the shelf is 3 degrees off horizontal. You put the spirit level away.
Stage Two: Anger. You mutter something about the walls not being straight. This is, in approximately 40% of British houses built before 1970, actually true. This is cold comfort.
Stage Three: Bargaining. "I'll sort it at the weekend." See above re: the weekend.
Stage Four: Depression. You look at Clive's Instagram again. Clive has built a pergola. Clive is smiling. Clive has forearms like a sailor. You close the app.
Stage Five: Acceptance. The shelf is fine. The books are on it. Nobody has mentioned the shelf in four months. You make a cup of tea and sit down and there is something quietly, genuinely satisfying about the shelf being there. You put that shelf up. It's yours. It's slightly wonky and it's yours.
That, if you ask me, is enough.
You put that shelf up. It's slightly wonky and it's yours.
So the next time someone on the internet shows you their immaculate built-in bookcase with integrated lighting and a secret door, nod admiringly, close the browser, and look at your own shelves. They're holding things. They've always held things. You put them there.
And if they're a tiny bit wonky — well. So is everything worth having.