Freeview: the denouement.

The TV aerial man patiently reattaches the cable where I have kicked it out, probably in frustration and not being able to find one of the straight-edged pieces of my Doctor Who puzzle. He changes the fastening so that I can't kick it apart ever again, and cuts away all of the excess cables underneath my desk that do nothing whatsoever. My Freeview reawakens with channels galore.

"I seem to remember," he muses, "that last time you called me it was something very simple as well."
"Well, yes," I say. "This is not my field. I mean, if I lived with someone else they could probably just point out where I have detached a cable... Like that time when I called my brother because I couldn't connect my computer to the internet, and it was because I hadn't plugged in my phone line. But you know, there are other things I do well."

TV aerial man maintains a polite silence.

"I am a very good cook," I say, ignoring the evidence of the mangled omelette I have just made for my lunch. "You know. The feminine things. Those I am good at."
"That will be £55 please."

£55, I am thinking, is cheap compared to the life-long cost of my utter hopelessness with all matters practical. And in paying £55, I am also thinking, I am keeping this very nice and tactful man in employment, and that is a good thing. And additionally, I am thinking, why don't I move all those copies of my novel downstairs where people who come round to fix stuff that isn't really broken can see them, so that they know that there is at least one thing that I can do properly?

"Next time," I promise, "I'll try to make sure that the aerial has blown off the roof. Something good for you to do."
"Goodbye," says TV aerial man.