SOMETHING comes over the male of the species at this time of the year that is difficult to explain.

It may have something to do with spring being sprung, the sap rising and all that. But it may also be something totally prehistoric.

Whatever it is, it has him beating his chest and yodelling like Tarzan. Jane is reduced to Her Indoors (Branch 2, Tree House Avenue, Lakeside, Africa) and equality goes out the window as he is determined to prove his masculinity.

It is called DIY - Do It Yourself or, more accurately, Don't Inflict it on Your family.

Suddenly, at Easter, he becomes a raging, self-sufficient beast and his wife is subjugated to grateful wu-man.

Easter, apparently, is the time when modern man goes DIY crazy. He not only buys more tools, wood, screws and paint than at any other time of the year, he also injures himself so much that hospitals build it in to their staffing rotas.

At Easter, men suddenly undergo this amazing metamorphosis. They dash into phone boxes and change their clothing. They emerge wearing a cape and T-shirt saying SuperSander, Brill Drill or Gloss Boss. It's a cape of many colours: careless splotches of lilac emulsion, grey undercoat and brilliant white gloss.

The need to DIY is prehistoric. It is the modern-day equivalent of finding the right cave, keeping it dry and decorating it with pretty cave paintings. And of course that is the animal equivalent of peeing in every corner to mark out your territory. Little has changed in a couple of million years.

In bygone days, He had to have the latest technology for his weaponry - Dodo feathers to make his arrow fly truer; extra-strong bow twine made from the back of the hairy mammoth; an arrowhead hewn from designer flint, especially if that's what Ugg Beckham was using to bring home pelts for wife Trogtoria and baby Bam-Bam.

Today, "man" also has to have the latest boy toys - the 24-volt, re-chargeable hammer drill; the laser-guided spirit level which has finally superseded the good-old bubble; a staple gun instead of hammer and nail, and a computerised paint roller which is guaranteed to give you straight edges, no runs, greater economy, sorts out your tax man and improves your sex life.

Which brings me to another important aspect of DIY - relationships. Can they survive? Can mine? Will she: a) run off with a builder/decorator; b) find someone who is wealthy enough to employ a builder/decorator, or c) give up her job and re-train as a builder/decorator?

I started to re-decorate our landing, stairs and hallway in mid-January. What began as a simple re-decorating job turned into the Project from Hell, with more re-building than papering and painting (I must speak to the lady who conned us into this ancient pile).

When we stripped off the wallpaper, the plaster fell off and had to be skimmed back on. When I burned paint off the skirting the wood was rotten. It crumbled and had to be replaced.

Of course, they don't do that shape anymore and we had to make a template and take it to the wood yard.

After all that, I've got through Easter with all my fingers and thumbs (despite the gloomy accident surveys) and I reckon there are only a few decades to go before I finish this accursed job.

But I simply do not recognise the DIY man that is me. Suddenly, I am the craftsman (tee-hee) and she is the labourer. I do the painting, she wipes down the paintwork; I make a mess, she cleans it up; I start to perspire, she pours the gin and tonic.

It's Tommy Walsh and Charlie Dimmock all over again - except he's three feet taller than me and my fair lady is several wobble sizes smaller than Charlie.

At least we have a system. When we are wallpapering, she pastes the strips and I slap them on the wall.

Our relationship suffers, though. The paste is always too thin; too thick, too lumpy or the edges are dry. Politeness goes out the window. Patience wears too thin, or too thick or too lumpy. You're hopeless. I'll do it myself. Oh, forget it.

Fortunately, we have done a lot of decorating in this relationship and we both know the limits. We even have Red Indian names for each other - never mind Crazy Horse, she is Stupid Woman Pasting and I am Angry Hanging Paper.

As far as I'm concerned it beats the hell out of "Get stuffed, paleface, I'm seeing my solicitor."

Updated: 10:57 Tuesday, April 13, 2004