Whatever Happened to Fixing Things?

Whatever Happened to Fixing Things? Peter has just finished replacing the flyscreen mesh around the house. This sounds straightforward. Remove old mesh. Put in new mesh. Job done.

Naturally, it wasn’t.

For a start, we probably needed about ten metres of flyscreen mesh. The sensible option would have been to buy ten metres. So, of course, the available option was a thirty-metre roll. We now have enough spare flyscreen mesh to cope with a small plague of locusts, several determined cockatoos, and possibly the next two owners of the house.

Then there were the little fittings holding the screens in place. These included a tiny plastic grommet with a rivet through it. Perfectly simple, until you want to replace the mesh and discover the rivet has to come out. And once it’s out, you need another one.

Could we buy the same fitting with a screw instead? Apparently not.

Eventually, the solution involved a self-tapping screw, which did the job very nicely. The screens are fixed, the insects are once again invited to remain outside, and Peter can chalk up another victory over modern manufacturing.

But it did get me thinking. Whatever happened to fixing things?

I grew up in a world where you expected things to be repaired. If something stopped working, somebody opened it up, found the problem and replaced the offending part. These days, far too often, the offending part appears to be unavailable, permanently attached, sealed inside something, or worth approximately $3 but requires the replacement of a $300 appliance.

And appliances themselves seem to possess an uncanny awareness of warranty dates. They soldier on bravely for the appointed period. Then, shortly after the warranty expires, something goes wrong.

Not immediately after, of course. That would look suspicious. They wait.

Then the dishwasher develops an interesting noise, the kettle decides boiling water is optional, or some electronic component announces that it has fulfilled its contractual obligations and would now like to retire.

Gone are the days when you kind of bought an appliance for life. Yours, not theirs. We have a washing machine like that, bought last century and still going strong. Of course, it wasn’t Made in China. That always helps.

Back to the modern day, we’ve had our share of failures. Like the watch that kept falling off. Not terribly useful behaviour in a watch. We’d had it for 2 days. We sent back a microwave because it started to rust. A microwave spends its life indoors, so I’m still not sure what harsh marine environment it thought it was living in.

And every time something like this happens, there’s that same question. Can it be fixed? Sometimes the answer is yes. More often, it’s, “Technically.”

Which generally means it can be repaired if you can find the part, locate somebody willing to fit it, pay nearly as much as the replacement item costs, and accept that the rest of the machine may expire next Thursday.

So we throw things away. Not because the whole thing is useless, but because one small part has failed and repairing it has been made too difficult, too expensive, or both. It’s usually something made of plastic that is supposed to hold the whole thing together.

I’m not suggesting we return to the days when every household needed somebody capable of dismantling a washing machine on the kitchen floor. I certainly don’t want to dismantle a washing machine on the kitchen floor.

But there ought to be a middle ground between “replace the worn part” and “throw the entire thing away and buy another”.

At least flyscreens still belong to the old world. They’re basically mesh, aluminium and a few bits and pieces. With some patience, a self-tapping screw and thirty metres of mesh when you only needed ten, they can still be fixed.

There’s something rather satisfying about that.

And if anybody needs some flyscreen mesh, we may be able to help.

For those interested, I have a new story coming out next week. It’s kind of about somebody fixing things. Except doing her friend a favour has a whole lot of consequences Morgan wasn’t expecting.

It’s called A Simple Favor. I’ll give you links next week.