Yeah, nah, she'll be right, just give it a whack. Photo / Mysid, Wikimedia Commons
Bob, the overly qualified, high-vis wearing, spirit level-owning “She’ll Be Right” certified builder, once asked, “Can we fix it?”
And recently, I found myself asking the same thing.
This all started after I wrote an article about the humble Kiwi shed.
A place of mystery, half-finished projects, and jars of screws that may or may not belong to anything that still exists.
I received an email from a man we will call Gavan, because that is his name.
Attached was a photo of a transporter toy for the grandkids that had clearly lived a full and meaningful life.
But instead of tossing it out, Gavan had set about fixing it in the best possible way.
Parts that had snapped or disappeared had been replaced with his own handmade versions, including little cars he had built from scratch to complete the set again.
It was less a repair and more a careful rebuild, bringing the whole thing back to life piece by piece. The kind of fix that goes beyond glue, and into proper problem-solving, patience and Kiwi ingenuity.
That is when the question hit me. Not “can we fix it?” but “do we fix it?”
Because these days, fixing things feels like something we used to do. Like recording songs off the radio or knowing your neighbour’s phone number by heart.
It still exists, but it is no longer the default setting.
Most of the time now, when something breaks, we replace it.
The jug stops working. You do not open it up. You just stand there, shrug your shoulders in disappointment, and then drive to the shop and buy another one.
Sometimes the same one. Sometimes the upgraded one with a blue light, after all, it is only an extra $20 for the blue light – bargain!
Toasters, kettles, headphones, vacuum cleaners. All of them seem to live short, dramatic lives before being quietly retired to a landfill.
Part of the problem is that fixing things has become harder.
Not just practically, but structurally. You cannot get parts. Or if you can, they cost more than the thing itself.
You open something up, and instead of a few wires and a screw you recognise, you are greeted by a sealed unit that looks like it was assembled in a lab by people who did not want you getting involved.
Even if you are brave enough to poke around, there is always that little voice in your head reminding you that if you touch anything, the warranty is gone. Voided. Cancelled.
Which feels unfair, because all you are trying to do is fix your toaster, not break any laws … aside from possibly bending a few laws of physics, particularly the one that says electricity and curiosity should never meet while the plug is still in the wall.
And yet, there is something deeply satisfying about fixing something.
That moment when it works again.
When the jug finally boils after you have taken it apart, had a look, put it back together and quietly hoped for the best.
When the light comes on, the switch clicks, and suddenly, you are back in the hot-drink game.
It is a small victory, but it feels like you have achieved something far bigger and you deserve that second Gingernut.
You learn things, too. Sometimes useful things.
Sometimes just enough to know that electricity deserves your full respect and should probably be approached with the plug firmly out of the wall.
Then there are the bigger appliances.
I remember when televisions were less about apps and more about patience.
If the picture went funny, there was a process.
A ritual. You would give the side a gentle tap. Then a slightly firmer tap.
Eventually, if all else failed, you would call a repair person.
Someone who arrived with tools, and just enough of the classic repairman crack to let you know they meant business.
Washing machines were another story.
If one broke, you called someone immediately, and they would say they could come next Tuesday.
Which was not ideal, because washing does not wait.
It builds slowly at first, then all at once, like a clothing tsunami, until you are forced to make some serious decisions.
Like whether turning your socks inside out counts as a fresh pair, and convincing yourself no one will notice as long as you keep your shoes on.
So, by the time the repair person arrived, you were in no position to negotiate; it really is a hostage situation.
They tell you the issue is caused by an internal imbalance of spin dynamics, and you just nod and agree.
And nine times out of 10, it was a bobby pin in the pump.
Which was always confusing in a flat with five guys. No one used bobby pins. And yet, there it was – every time.
These days, if you call someone out, the conversation is different.
“There is moisture in the circuit board.”
Right.
We will need to replace that, at a cost that is somehow just slightly more than buying a brand-new washing machine.
And you are left standing there thinking, it is a washing machine. Moisture feels like part of the job description. So, this sounds less like a me problem and more like a you problem.
Even the humble fridge has evolved beyond us.
There was a time when a fridge did one job. It kept things cold. And it did it well.
Some of those old fridges are still going. Sitting in garages across the country, humming away, filled with drinks and leftovers, still doing exactly what they were built to do.
Often in a shade of avocado that no one would choose today, but everyone respects.
Now, fridges do everything. They make ice. They make water. They make icy water. Some of them connect to the internet and let you know when you are low on butter.
Which sounds impressive, until something goes wrong.
Because suddenly you are not fixing a fridge. You are dealing with a system. A network. A cold, humming computer that also happens to store your milk.
Cars have followed a similar path.
They used to be something you could tinker with. You could open the bonnet, have a look, adjust something, and see if it made a difference. It was a process not unlike an eye test.
Better or worse?
You were never entirely sure, but you would make a call and move forward.
Eventually, through a series of educated guesses and hopeful adjustments, the car would run again.
And you would feel like a mechanical genius. Like Burt Munro – if Burt Munro had an ’88 Corolla and a socket set missing the 10mm socket you are sure you put back.
Now, you open the bonnet, and it looks like a mystery.
You do not fix cars anymore. You connect them to a computer. A very expensive computer that produces a list of things you do not understand, followed by a bill just as long.
And suddenly you are nodding along to things like “cup holder relining motor failure”.
Somewhere along the way, we have lost the ability to fix things, and with it, a bit of the knowledge that came from having a go.
For example, car manuals used to show you how to adjust valves. Now they warn you not to drink the contents of the battery.
Which feels like a step backwards. So maybe the answer to Bob’s question, “Can we fix it?” is sadly, no.
Not just because of the waste, although that is part of it. You just need to go to your local dump and see the growing pile of once-fixable things, quietly stacked like a graveyard of “could have been sorted”.
But also because we are losing something else.
That moment of standing in the shed, holding a broken thing, and thinking, I reckon I can figure this out.
Gavan did.
So maybe it is time to go back.
Back to appliances and vehicles we can actually fix. The kind you can drag into the shed on a Saturday, stare at for a bit, give a gentle tap, take apart, and maybe even put back together again with a few parts left over.
Then celebrate its resurrection with a cuppa from the jug you repaired last weekend and a Gingernut.