It is the weekend, and my wife wants me to cover the felt top of the old card table in oilcloth. It is, unfortunately for me, one of those things I know how to do.

We have very different approaches to DIY. My wife does not accept that doing a job properly takes time; she believes patience and laziness are but symptoms of the same disease – perfectionism. She has never been one to allow a coat of paint to dry before applying another. That's why she doesn't want to hear that the card table top, which has been left out in the rain, must first dry overnight.

"You're just stalling," she says. "It'll be fine."

"It will not be fine," I say. "It's already warped."

I lay it flat on the kitchen floor, to demonstrate its pronounced unflatness. Then I take the old metal stool with the fold-out stepladder legs from the corner and sit it on top, as a weight.

"Until tomorrow, then," I say.

In the morning, the top is flat. I lay it on the oilcloth, load my staple gun and pin the centre of one overlapping edge to the back. I once learned to stretch canvasses for painting, and the technique is much the same: you work on each side in turn, a few staples at a time, always moving clockwise. That way, you don't get any puckering. My wife chooses to be out when I do this, which is a shame. She could learn something about what goes into the results that reward the thoroughgoing.

"That looks lovely," she says when she returns to find the taut, unblemished orange top back on its table.

"You have no idea," I say, but she is already looking past the table. My only mistake, I realise, was moving the metal step-stool from the corner where it has sat unnoticed for five years.

"That needs painting," she says, pointing.

"That sounds like a project," I say, "for you."

In the DIY superstore, the difference in our approaches becomes apparent. My wife first refuses to believe there is such a thing as metal paint. Then, when I show her some, she decides it's an expensive con. "I'm sure you can just use any paint," she says. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does," I say.

My wife begins her project immediately, without any planning or mental preparation. She just puts a sheet of newspaper on the sitting room floor, turns on Teen Mom 2, and starts. I knew she would not use sandpaper, or apply primer, but I still find it hard to watch.

"I see you haven't unscrewed the steps first," I say.

"That's right, I haven't," she says. "This is my thing, so go away."

A little later, I hear the whir of the electric screwdriver. It's nice to know my passive aggression is not wasted.

She applies a second coat directly, without waiting. I watch her slosh on the finishing touches, allowing fat drips to run down the legs.

"Don't say a fucking word," she says.

I pick up a step and examine the alignment of the screw holes. "When you put these back on," I say, "bear in mind there's a right way and a wrong way."

An hour later, I hear the electric screwdriver wheeze to a halt. I retrieve an ordinary screwdriver and take it in to her. She's holding up two steps, comparing their size.

"Would you be offended," I say, "if I finished that for you?"

"No," she says, handing me a step.

As I slot it into place, its edge gouges the fresh paint, peeling off a leathery strip.

"Don't worry," my wife says. "I can fix that."