28April2025
Today felt like walking back to the old workshop I once dreamed of opening in the centre of Birminghams Further Education Campus, except the signs now read Room Hire instead of Studio Space. I passed the same backalley courts, the same dented shop fronts, but I no longer counted the shop windows or tried to guess how many pupils would swing by on the fly. Instead I counted the steps up to the doorway, an odd way to keep my mind from drifting back to the year when both my savings and my confidence fell apart like a badly soldered joint.
Im fortyeight. The passport makes it look respectable; inside I feel as if someone hit pause on my life and never pressed play again. Ive been running a domesticappliance repair business for almost ten years: first alone, then with a partner, then solo again, and finally without a few essential tools I had to pawn when the rent spiked and customers started bargaining, Can you fix it for a grand, or better yet, for free? I didnt collapse spectacularly. I simply grew weary of having to justify why my labour wasnt charity, and one morning I couldnt summon the energy to rise with the thought of smiling at people haggling over every screw.
The security guard at the reception desk met me with a knitted scarf and a steely gaze.
Looking for someone? she asked.
…Im here for the club, I muttered, hearing my own words sound a bit odd, and felt a blush creep up.
She glanced at me as if Id walked into the wrong building. Room13. Down the corridor, right, then left. Its the Technology room. Keep it down; the choir practice is next door.
The corridor was cold, linoleumcovered, the kind that has survived more reforms than I care to recall. Under my arm I cradled a battered box of salvaged gear: a multimeter, a mixed set of screwdrivers, two old soldering irons, a spool of solder and a plastic bin of bolts. It looked like the luggage of someone who once imagined a proper shop with a fume extractor and decent lighting.
Room13 turned out to be an old craft classroom: sturdy tables, a locked cabinet, and a long bench by the window holding two soldering pads and a hopelessly tangled extension lead. On the wall hung a faded healthandsafety poster; the words Do not touch with wet hands were still legible.
The first teens didnt arrive straight away. The schedule said Appliance Repair & Assembly ages1416, but the door saw a mix of twelveyearold boys and girls who looked as if theyd been pushed in by a bored teacher.
Do you actually fix things here? asked a tall lad in a black jacket, hood still on.
Only if theres something to fix, I replied.
And if there isnt?
Then well break things and put them back together, I said, surprising myself. He snorted but stayed.
Soon a lanky, quiet kid with a backpack that seemed heavier than him slipped in, perched by the window and immediately pulled out a ruled notebook. He didnt greet me, didnt meet my eyes, just adjusted his pen.
Whats your name? I asked.
Aaron, he answered after a pause, as if weighing whether to speak at all.
Two more showed up for company and began whispering by the door. One was roundfaced with a permanent grin; the other wore headphones that never left his ears.
Im Danny, said the grinone. And this is Sam. He can hear us, just differently.
Sam gave a thumbsup without taking his headphones off.
I quickly learned that my old habit of speaking fast and confidentlylike I did with customers fell flat here. No one was looking for a service; they were testing whether the adult in the room would be on their wavelength or just another adult making a show of it.
I set the box on the table and opened it.
Alright, anyone with a broken kettle, hairdryer, cassette player, speakeranything that plugs into a standard 230volt socketbring it in. Well strip it down, see why it wont work, and try to reassemble it. If something burns, well figure out why.
What if we get an electric shock? asked Danny, eyes twinkling for effect.
Then Im to blame, I said. So first we learn how not to get shocked. Well only work with appliances that are unplugged. Its boring, but sore fingers are worse.
The first session was mostly demonstration: how to hold a screwdriver, how not to rip the plastic housing, how to label bolts so nothing looks extra. The teens drifted in and out of attention. Aaron kept drawing rectangles in his notebook that resembled circuit diagrams. Sam stared at his phone, only occasionally glancing at my hands as if committing the motions to memory.
The soldering iron the centre supplied turned out to be dead. I plugged it in, waited, felt the cold metal.
Its not heating up, said Danny with a smug grin, as if Id deceived them.
Then well start by fixing the iron, I replied calmly, noticing Aaron glance up.
In the second meeting someone brought a kitchen kettle without a base. It looked intact, the button clicked, but it wouldnt turn on.
Thats my mums, Danny announced. She said if I fix it she wont have to buy a new one.
I stripped the bottom, pointed out a charred contact.
You see the contact is burnt. We need to clean it, check if the heating element is still good.
Can we just short it? asked Sam, finally removing one earbud.
You could, but then the kettle will only work when it feels like it. Itd be like a door without a lockclosed, yet anyone could slip in.
We worked together, Sam holding a flashlight on his phone, Danny passing tools. Aaron, silent till then, whispered, There might be a thermal fuse. If its blown, cleaning the contacts wont help. He drew a tiny schematic on the margins of his notebook, pointing to where a fuse usually sits near the heating coil.
I felt an odd relief; I wasnt the only one who knew a thing or two.
We located the fuse, tested it with the multimeterit was fine. After cleaning the contacts and reassembling, the kettle clicked and buzzed.
Wow! Dannys grin broadened. It really works.
For now, I warned. Dont leave it unattended, and tell your mum we cleaned the contacts, not performed magic.
Shell probably say I did nothing, he muttered, but his tone softened. He packed the kettle away as if it were a trophy.
The third session brought a hairdryer. A girl named Poppy clutched it as if it might bite.
It smells and shuts off, she said. Mum wants to toss it, but Im too attached.
I opened it; dust and hair littered the motor.
Thats why it smells, I explained. Its not a faulty dryer; its a lifefilled one.
Poppy giggled, a quick, cautious laugh.
It shuts off because of the thermal cutout, I added. Well clean the fan, check the brushes, and look at the contact.
Sam perked up. I have the same at home. Dad glued it shut, now it rattles.
Glued? I said, smiling. You can glue a lot of thingssometimes even relationships.
Sam stared, halfexpectant, halfskeptical.
We lubricated the bearing, cleared the motor, and tested the cord. Poppy noted, If we dont clean it, itll just burn later. I nodded, pretending not to hear the metaphor.
Over the next few weeks Aaron arrived earlier, spreading his sketches across the table. I noticed his hands bore tiny nicks, as if hed been fiddling with electronics at home too.
Where did you learn that? I asked once, after he repaired the jack on an old speaker without being asked.
At home. Granddad had a radio. When he passed, the radio stayed. I didnt want it to just collect dust, Aaron said, shrugging.
I understood that longingto keep something workingbecause otherwise too much around you just stops.
I never bragged about my past business, just mentioned I used to fix appliances. The teens didnt pry, yet I caught myself waiting for a question, fearing the same old sting of I didnt make it.
One afternoon, while we were dismantling a vintage cassette player Sam had brought, a spring snapped off and flew under the cabinet.
Great, I muttered, irritation creeping in. Now it wont reassemble.
Thats like loot dropping in a game, Danny quipped.
Aaron knelt, slipped under the cabinet, Sam peeled off his other earbud, and together they hunted the spring. Shame washed over me; I remembered snapping at customers in my old shop over trivial things, apologising later but never quite shaking the residue.
Okay, my fault, I said softer. I shouldve covered the workbench with a cloth.
Dont worry, we all mess up, Danny said, surprisingly earnest.
Aaron retrieved the spring with the tip of a ruler. Got it, he announced, pride flickering in his voice.
I placed the spring in a tiny tin and told them, This little piece mattersnot because the player wont work without it, but because we found it together.
Sam laughed, Deep thoughts.
Its just experience, I replied.
A few weeks later the centre announced a modest Club Fair for parents and neighbours. Nothing grandtables in the hall, kids showing what theyd been up to. The centre manager, a brisk woman with a perpetual clipboard, popped into Room13.
Stephen, youll need something to display. No dangerous experiments, understand?
Im already keeping it safe, I replied.
She eyed my tangled extension lead. That looks dated, she said, before walking away.
I realised the fair would expose everything: the shabby equipment, the fact we were learning on scraps, and my own uncertainty about being a teacher rather than a tradesman.
Will we be showing a repaired item? Danny asked.
Yes, I said. But it has to work not just on our table, but in front of an audience.
What if it fails? Poppy asked.
Then well be honest about it. Failure is part of the process, I answered.
Aaron, still holding his schematic, suggested, We could make a display boardshow the inside, not just the on light.
A thought shifted inside me. Id always sold a finished product; now I could showcase the process.
We stayed after class, the hallway dimmed, the cleaning lady scrubbing the floor, the scent of detergent mixing with the dust from our room. I laid out cardboard, markers, tape. Danny fetched an old picture frame to make it look neat. Sam lugged a small speaker wed revived and put on lowvolume music.
Quiet, please, I said automatically.
Fine, Im quiet, Sam replied, turning the volume down.
Poppy placed the hairdryer beside a sign that read After cleaning. Danny labeled the kettle Contacts Not magic. Aaron glued his cassetteplayer diagram onto the board, drawing arrows.
Youre like an engineer, I said.
I just like things to make sense, he replied.
A small tiff broke out when Danny wanted the kettle at the edge of the table for visibility. Poppy warned it could be knocked over. Sam brushed it off, Everyone cares anyway. Danny snapped, You never care! You only showed up because you wanted to prove you werent useless!
Sam ripped off his headphones. Youre here to prove to your mum youre not a dunce, he shot back.
Silence fell. I felt the urge to step in and mop up the mess with a tidy speech, the same old reflex to smooth over conflict quickly. I remembered how that habit had once left me with a hollow victory.
Guys, I said calmly, lets keep the blows below the belt. This isnt a battlefield.
Dannys ears turned pink. I just want to prove something, he murmured.
Sam looked down. Its noisy at home, so I come here. Its quiet here.
Poppy nudged the dryer a bit and said, Lets just put the kettle in the centre.
We did. The argument didnt vanish, but the crack was smaller, caught early.
The fair itself was cramped. Parents shuffled around with shopping bags, some filming on phones, others asking questions as if scouting for the next useful skill. My palms sweated; Ive never liked being the centre of attention. In my business I could hide behind a counter, a work order, a polite Well call you back. Here there was nowhere to hide.
A woman in a puffy coat approached. What are you doing here? Are the kids playing with electricity?
Before I could launch into a safety lecture, Aaron spoke up. Were learning how things work and how to stay safe. Heres a fuse, heres a contact. If you understand, youre less scared.
She looked at Aaron, then at me. Hes articulate, she said.
He thinks well, I agreed.
Danny demonstrated the kettle, cracking a joke about no magic. Poppy narrated the hairdryer cleaning as if defending its honour. Sam turned on the revived speaker, letting it click and whirr; when it got too loud, I gave a stern look and he rolled his eyes, turning the volume down.
A man in a work jacket, about forty, lingered by our table. What are you, a teacher? he asked.
Im running the club now, I replied. I used to repair appliances. Its different now.
He nodded, as if hed grasped more than Id said.
Good to have you here, he said and walked away.
After the fair the hall emptied. Someone had forgotten a glove on a windowsill. I carried the box of tools, fatigue settling innot the kind that makes you want to collapse, but the kind that begs for a proper meal and an early night.
Stephen, Danny called as he paused at the doorway, could we try a microwave next time? The neighbours is going to trash it anyway.
A microwave is a bad ideahigh voltage, I warned. But a toaster, a lamp, or a charger would be fine.
Ill bring three chargers, Sam offered. All of them you know what I mean.
Poppy smiled. Ill bring the hairdryer again. It works at home, but Mum says Ill clean it myself now.
Aaron lingered, eyeing the schematic on the cardboard. Can I take it home? Hang it up?
Take it, just be careful, I said.
He folded the board, hugging it like a small treasure.
When everyone had left, I stayed a few minutes alone. I switched off the extension lead, neatly packed the tools, closed the cabinet. The room was quiet, only the distant click of a door somewhere down the corridor.
I sat on a chair, stared at the empty table, and realized there was no grand triumph, no heros moment. There was simply the quiet certainty that tomorrow more people would walk in, looking for a place to fix things and maybe, just maybe, to talk without any pretense.
I pulled out a notebook from my jacket pocket and wrote: Buy a proper extension lead. Ask the centre for another soldering iron. Get a lamp. Then added: Ask Aaron about a display board. Let Danny make signage. Have Sam handle background musiconly if its not too loud.
I closed the notebook, turned off the lights, and as I walked out, I glanced back at Room13. Its still not a proper workshop, but its no longer just a classroom either. Closing the door, I caught myself thinking not about what Ive lost, but about what can be rebuiltslowly, screw by screw.
