I was standing in the middle of the living room, hammer in hand, covered in paint like some kind of tragic Picasso, staring at a wall that didn’t give a flying f**k about me. And I thought—this is it. The moment I embrace my new life in Spain. The moment I knock down a wall like I’m some kind of Spanish renovation god. “Let the light flood in!” That’s what they said, right? On the YouTube videos. So I grabbed the hammer and swung like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Five minutes later, I looked like I’d just done a round with a bear. My arms were sore, my forehead was dripping sweat like I’d been running a marathon in a sauna, and the wall—oh, the wall? It just stood there, mocking me, untouched.
Carmen, bless her, was sitting on the couch, probably trying to figure out what exactly she’d gotten herself into when she agreed to date a guy who thought knocking down walls was a good idea. She was trying not to laugh, I could see it in her eyes. Probably thinking, “This is it. This is the moment I realize I’m dating someone who thinks ‘DIY’ means ‘Destroy It Yourself.’”
I gave the hammer another swing. Harder this time. There was a satisfying crack. But that wasn’t the wall breaking. No, no. That was my pride, shattering into a thousand tiny pieces. I hit the wall again, aiming for a weak spot. Instead, the hammer bounced off like I’d just tried to punch a brick with my bare fist. I swear, the wall gave me the finger. I heard it in the way the dust hovered.
I was two inches into my wall demolition mission, and the guy from YouTube, the one with the six-pack abs and perfect lighting, was probably already halfway through his second house rebuild, having a coffee, laughing at me.
At this point, Carmen put down her book, which—let’s be honest—she’d been pretending to read for the last half hour while I flailed about with a hammer. She walked over, arms folded, probably planning her escape route. “Babe, maybe you want to try being gentle with it?” she said, like I was a toddler who’d just smashed his first plate.
“Gentle?” I was furious. “Gentle’s for people who don’t want to get things done. Gentle’s for… for people who have feelings.”
She raised an eyebrow and stepped aside, probably deciding if she should call a contractor or, I don’t know, run away with a salsa instructor in Málaga instead. I took a deep breath, gave it one more swing—and the wall held strong. It was like the universe was out to get me.
So, what did I do? Did I step back, reassess? Nope. I took a look at Carmen. And you know what? She wasn’t even mad. She was just standing there, trying to hold back a grin. So, I did what anyone who had made a complete fool of themselves would do—I called a professional.
This guy came in, looked at me with a face that screamed “You’re not a builder, mate,” and in about 20 minutes, he’d made the wall disappear like it was a bad memory. Meanwhile, I stood there, pretending to be useful, like I was holding up the other side of the hammer.
At the end of the day, Carmen and I were left standing in front of the now-wider living room, the fresh air pouring in from the hole in the wall. She didn’t even say anything about the DIY disaster. She just looked at me and said, “Well, at least you tried.”
Yeah. I tried. I tried hard. But next time, I’ll call someone who actually knows what they’re doing.
DIY? That’s for people with patience. Or people who have real hammers, not ones they found in their dad’s shed after 15 years. Maybe next time I’ll stick to hanging pictures. Or maybe I’ll just leave it to Carmen—she’s got a better eye for this whole thing anyway.
Whatever happened that day, we had a good old laugh and reinforced my gut feeling that i chose the right place to settle!