I HAVE reached that age.

All men know it is there on the horizon.

A time in your late 20s or early 30s where you feel you should own tools and even know how to use them.

This is not for the hollow satisfaction of learning a practical skill but also an important string to your bow when trying to attract a mate.

My lack of knowledge in this area may be the reason my sexual activities have given a bitter new meaning to DIY in recent months.

The problem is my dad has always been good at building things, decorating, and the like so as things got broken around the house they would automatically be mended and I never had to pay much attention to the nitty gritty.

I was forced to face my shortcomings when after leaving home I made the bold decision to purchase a flat-pack bookcase.

I gleefully opened it up assuming there would be some kind of pop-up mechanism.

After several hours I was still sat on the floor surrounded by different sized pieces of wood that seemed now to be mocking me.

I thought briefly about hiring a carpenter.

That would be great, I would be employing someone, it would make me feel like a grown up, maybe he would even call me gaffer.

I dismissed this plan as being a student at the time I could only afford to pay a few cups of weak tea and a Pot Noodle – I called my dad.

“So visiting in four months... could you bring your tools?”

My various girlfriends also seem to have enjoyed flouting their superior skills in front of me.

I came in once to find one of these love bunnies rewiring a plug.

I was horrified and insisted she hand it over immediately.

“But you don’t know how,” she accurately protested.

“That’s not the point,” I said disgusted at her lack of understanding.

I looked at it for awhile, envisaging several electrical shocks before admitting defeat, handing it back to her and going to the bedroom to sulk.

My fleeting efforts to help have always led to me being scolded, sent to make cups of tea or given a high energy but essentially pointless job to keep me occupied – a pity task.

However, a new chance to hone my skills and become “handy” arose this week when I was dozing on a relaxing Sunday afternoon.

Suddenly I heard a crash and a scream and the world turned upside down.

I climbed out of the broken reminisce of my bed and assessed the damage.

After a few days of sleeping on the uncomfortable pile of broken planks it struck me a project like this could be a turning point surely this would involve me using a hammer, a screwdriver who knows maybe even a workbench.

I was just wondering whether to make myself some cut-off denim shorts and where I could get my hands on a utility belt when my dad came in with a replacement metal frame.

After several botched attempts to make it fit I was sent downstairs to make cups of tea.