I HAVE been putting it off for many months now, but the time cannot be far away when I will be ordered to start assembling and erecting the new bathroom cabinet we bought from B&Q back in the spring.

The new cabinet was supposed to be a minor part of a retirement project to redecorate and titivate the bathroom, including tightening up the cold tap in the bath itself, which has always spun around like Darcey Bussell practising her pirouettes.

To most people, putting together a tiny cupboard big enough to hold my shaving accoutrements, toothpaste supplies and innumerable bars of soap, along with assorted creams, sprays and unguents, and the tweezers with which I do battle with my vigorous nose hairs, is the work of less than 10 minutes.

But when it comes to anything involving screwdrivers, power drills and rawlplugs, I am a one man wrecking ball.

The present bathroom cabinet has served its purpose for many years, but earlier this year, there was a loud crack, after which part of a spring dropped into the washbasin. One of the doors has sagged drunkenly ever since,

Mrs Hextol and I went to various DIY stores to seek a replacement, rejecting many before Mrs Hextol decided on a double doored mirrored version.

It was so heavy I could barely lift it into the shopping trolley, and when I shook the box, there was the rattle of innumerable parts, all of which have to be assembled like the most complex jigsaw puzzle on the planet.

I just know that when push comes to shove, there will be some parts missing and others will be surplus to requirements, but that is a minor detail when it comes to attaching the unit to the wall.

The bathroom is decorated in a rather pleasant shade of peachy washable paper, skilfully applied by the delicate hand of Mrs Hextol, but beneath that, the wall itself is cratered like the battlefield of Passchendaele following many botched and bungled attempts to apply things to the wall in the past.

A bid to erect a towel rail resulted in a hole big enough for a serving hatch, while the attempt to put up a toilet roll holder created another Tyne Tunnel.

Even the contents of several packets of Polyfilla could not adequately hide my handiwork, and I fear that when the wallpaper is eventually peeled off, half of the wall will come away with it.

My record at attaching things to the wall is not good, as evidenced a couple of years ago, when I was persuaded against my better judgement to hang a large cupboard in my late father in law’s conservatory.

I had to drill several holes in the stonework, expecting at any moment to be hurled smoking into the garden after hitting a power cable or be soaked to the skin after coming into unwelcome contact with a water pipe.

To my amazement, nothing untoward happened, and I was able to tap in rawlplugs without them disintegrating, or vanishing into the mysterious depths of the cavernous hole I had created.

I was equally astonished to find the holes in the wall and the holes in the cupboard lined up perfectly, and I screwed it securely to the wall ridiculously pleased with myself.

I swaggered smugly into the garden, noting the expressions of utter incredulity on the faces of Mrs Hextol and her father that I appeared to have done the job properly. Some 10 minutes later, a furious bellow filled the air, as Mrs Hextol screeched: “Frank Spencer, get back in here…”

I returned to the conservatory to find my pride and joy of a cupboard lying on the floor, smashed into pieces, with the items which had been placed in it scattered to the four winds.

“You didn’t tell me you were going to put stuff in it,” I wailed plaintively.

Despite my many failures, Mrs Hextol maintains there is a Barry Bucknell concealed within my portly frame, and the time cannot be far away when I have to take the first step towards my cabinet appointment – actually opening the box it came in without unleashing a heavy shower of screws, washers, dowels and other microscopic, but vital, elements of the structure.

Reading the instructions to any flat pack furniture always gives me a migraine, as the helpful diagrams alongside the inevitable Taiwanese hieroglyphics tend to confuse rather than assist the incompetent.