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It would be fair to say that none of the maintenance issues I’ve faced this year have fixed themselves. But many of them have become conveniently irrelevant – a testament to my DIY philosophy: First, Do Nothing.

The collapsed brick wall is now overgrown with ivy, and all but invisible. The partially collapsed pergola remains in the same condition, but the wisteria it was holding up died, so it can carry on collapsing for all I care.

And actually, the stuck garden door did sort of fix itself – one day it just opened. It then unfixed itself a fortnight later, fusing shut and staying that way, but in my opinion this one setback does not justify a refutation of the entire First Do Nothing philosophy.

I’ll admit that at times I have rashly contemplated doing Something. I’ve thought about taking an axe to the pergola. I’ve also watched a few beginner’s bricklaying videos, and then rummaged through the toolbox in search of my trowel. But these are idle urges. I’m aware of the harm my past interventions have caused.

Then my wife and I embark on the labyrinthine and dispiriting process of trying to get an electrical car charger installed in our drive. Nothing, apart from the bit at the beginning where you pay a lot of money, is simple: I have to upload photos of the proposed site of installation, and the fuse box.

“Now it wants us to make a video of the journey between the two,” I say, “and send that.”

“Which way would you go?” my wife says. “Out the front door, or the garden door?”

“The garden door is stuck shut,” I say. “Anyway, I’m not doing it.”

My wife makes the video. Meanwhile, I have to upload a hand-drawn floor plan of our downstairs. I make a poor job of it on purpose, thinking: I don’t work for you people.

I wake up early the next morning with an idea. As soon as I am dressed I find my trowel. I take it out to the garden – not to the brick wall, but, to the stuck door.

I slide the trowel’s leading edge between the frame and the latch while applying pressure; the door opens easily. Evidently the latch doesn’t retract far enough to clear the hole – it needs a bit of help from a flat-bladed article. It’s an easy fix – removing the strike plate and chiselling away a few millimetres of wood should do it. But I think: never mind that – I have the trowel now.

A week later an electrician arrives to install the charger. He’s immediately unhappy – he doesn’t see an obvious cable route between charger site and fuse box. I figure it’s not my problem – I’ve paid – but he’s talking about running unsightly trunking along the walls. I tell him my wife won’t accept that.

“This is just the worst job,” he says.

“What about,” I say, “running it under here, through the wall, and – follow me …”

I take him out to the garden door, reaching for the trowel that now hangs on a hook beside it.

“Through here,” I say, tripping the latch. “And just on this wall is where the charger goes. Much shorter, no trunking.”

“We’d have to lift some floorboards,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say, thinking: we? Don’t you mean you?

The first board comes up easily: clearly the site of previous plumbing or electrical work, it’s been sawn short and is free of nails. But removing it offers an unsettling glimpse of the brick piers on which the whole house rests. Having seen it, I will not sleep well.

The second board is longer and securely nailed in. I have to move the piano out of the way. When pried with a screwdriver, it only cracks and splits.

“We need to lever it from either side,” says the electrician.

“Hang on,” I say, stepping into the garden and coming back with a second implement.

“A trowel?” he says.

“It’s good for everything,” I say.

When my wife gets home we’re on our knees pulling up board number four, still in search of a clear path for the cable to travel.

“You’ve removed the sitting room floor, I see,” she says.

“There’s still a joist in the way,” says the electrician, peering under with his phone torch.

“This one next?” I say, pointing to a fresh floorboard. He shrugs.

“I guess,” he says.

I can sense the electrician is losing heart, but I feel a strong urge to press on in hope that the installation process won’t spread itself over a period of days or weeks. In this, of course, I will fail.

I slide my trowel blade between two boards and press down on the handle, thinking: we’re a long way from First Do Nothing.