Yesterday evening I set to trying to fix our TV, which seems to be dying. When I started out, intrepidly reaching for the tool box, I reckoned I was manfully defying our culture of built-in obsolescence and disposability. I was setting out to fix something that was trying to die on me and trap me into replacing it with something new, shiny, more up-to-date. Something flat. Something digital. (Actually, something capable of displaying the whole picture, now that everything seems to be being broadcast in widescreen. But I digress.)
As I dismantled the ailing beast though, I had to admit to myself that I had no idea what to do once I'd got the back off. I didn't know what I was looking for in the way of symptoms, and had no resources to call on if I did find something wrong. The closest I have to spare parts would be cartridge fuses, and even then only the ones that go into mains plugs.
In short, I wasn't doing this because I know how to fix TV sets, I was doing it because I know how to use a screwdriver.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is what it is to be a father.
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