Get A Man In?

Gratuitous, I know, but it seems appropriate.

From now on I want everyone to call me Regina. It's not a change I envisaged having to make but I fear it has been forced on me. You see, I am having grave doubts about my gender and believe I may well actually be a woman - well, more specifically, a lesbian - trapped in the body of a hideously disfigured, middle-aged man.
The classic stereotype would have us believe that women tend to enjoy and be pretty competent at cooking, go "awww, how cute" every time they see a furry animal, find endless talk about football boring and constantly clean things around the house. They are supposed to blub at sad films, know absolutely nothing about cars, find talk of them even more boring than football and be useless at heavy duty DIY.
The male stereotype, on the other hand, is someone who does no cooking (unless it is their job) or is hopeless at it, feels the need to reach for an air rifle when he sees a fluffy bunny, adores nothing more than pouring over football facts and figures and finds the concept of cleaning the house an anathema. He only blubs at films where a woman is about to take her clothes off when the director chooses to cut to another scene, loves and talks endlessly about cars and is a practically-minded expert at DIY.
The artist formerly known as Reg fits very much the female model (apart from my finding the cutting of gratuitious sex scenes deeply upsetting) and it is my aptitude for the last distinguishing feature, DIY, which has finally convinced me that God has been unkind to me in the gender department.
I am absolutely fucking shite at DIY! It was something I tried to put to the back of my mind but a discovery yesterday made me squeeze out of the Ikea self-assembly closet, admission-to-ability-wise, and face up to the fact.
Some time ago I fitted some shelves in the lounge and was quite proud of my handiwork. They have no visible brackets and are kept up by metal poles drilled through the middle of them and through the wall (Lack shelves from Ikea, for those even vaguely interested). There was only one hiccup during their installation - my nextdoor neighbour came round to helpfully inform me: "You do realise your drill has come through my fucking dining room wall, you pillock?" I managed to pacify him and was left to admire my efforts. I could feel testosterone surging through my veins. I was A MAN! I felt like making a fire in the garden by rubbing sticks together and then dragging my soon-to-be ex-wife and a side of venison into a cave to celebrate my masculinity.
All was fine until yesterday when I did a major Spring clean around the house (see feminine traits above) and decided to rearrange things in the lounge slightly (life on the edge, you see. No net! I tweak the nipples of fear and slap the testicles of retribution!) The bottom of the three shelves I had put up, until then, carried a handful of DVDs and nothing else. I decided to put a selection of magazines alongside them - mistake! As I did so there was an ominous "creak" and I turned to see the shelf bend down by about 30 degrees and shed DVDs and magazines down the back of the telly! Oh bollocks! (I'm not sure if the photograph illustrates the extent of the sag but, believe me, it is there.)

That shelf will now only carry about four items, each of which has to have a coefficient of friction slightly higher than rubber-coated granite if it is to stay in place.
This disaster is typical of my ventures into the world of do-it-yourself. I once decided, when I had a Mini, to bleed the brakes myself. I went into town to buy a manual (about £20, which was very expensive at the time) and a brake-bleeding kit from Halfords. Back home I read the manual, a paragraph-at-a-time, to discover that I needed a special spanner to loosen the top bleed nipple (juvenile giggle). Back into town to buy one then, back home, I discovered that I needed a different, miniature spanner to loosen the bottom nipple (still makes me snigger). Into town AGAIN and back home, then to work. After finishing I experienced the same rush of testosterone as outlined earlier. I got into the car, drove off down the road, approached the T-junction at the end and so applied the brakes - and promptly careered straight across into a lamppost! The bill for the spanners, brake-bleeding kit and repairs to the radiator, bumper, front grill and one headlight came to around £300. I could have got a garage to bleed the brakes for around £30. You would have thought I learned my lesson then!
There are scores of other examples of my DIY fuckwittedness but I think you get the picture.
Anyway, gender confusion and DIY shall, henceforth, be the sole preserve of Grantham.