My parents in London for a week installing a new bathroom. A lovely sweet gesture that turned out to be A Horrible Thing.
My dad's now in his 70s, and refuses to admit it. Sadly, in the last six months his hands have started shaking, which made plumbing tricksie. He's also getting forgetful, not helped by my mother anxiously cleaning up after him. He's very deaf, so he can't hear when you tell him where the screwdriver is. And his nasty temper has become a helpless rage.
A typical day (and there were Nine of Them) went like this...
DAD: Bugger's leaking. (HITS PIPE WITH WRENCH) Now it's gone everwhere. Get me some newspaper you bugger.
I run off for newspaper.
DAD: Where's my wrench? I just put the bloody thing down.
MUM: Oh, I've just cleaned it and popped it back in your toolbox.
DAD: I said, where's my wrench? Oh. It's leaking again. Have you seen my wrench?
I run off and get the wrench and put it quietly by Dad.
DAD: There it was all along. Why does this thing keep leaking?
ME: Er... Don't you turn it clockwise to tighten it?
DAD: You bloody bugger! I am... no hang on... You bugger, letting me do that for ten minutes like that and not saying a word. You lazy sod.
ME: Please get out of my house.
DAD: What was that? Oh. It's leaking again...
On top of that, it took them minutes to disable the central heating, turn off the water, and fill the house with necessary bits of DIY gubbins. I even caught Dad trying to store plywood in my flatmate's room. Within half a day the flat was cold, damp, full of grit and completely cheerless. All that was missing from my childhood was an extra four stone and regular beatings.