Because of this blessed extension we’re having built: trees, cards, decorations, presents, Yuletide glow (whatever that is) Peace and Goodwill to all men – in fact all things Christmas were last on our minds. Hence the presents: my two sons a tyre pressure gauge and 1½ litres of Castrol GTX and my wife, 8 kilos of barbeque briquettes respectively were all I could find in the last shop open at 12:45am Christmas morning: the local filling station.

After weeks of feeling like unwelcome visitors in our own home as troops of Irish brickies, plasterers, Polish and Lithuanian labourers, hyperactive roofers and plumbers with Tourette’s wandered around clutching endless cups of tea, looking quizzically at us when we cast disapproving eyes over unnecessary dirty foot and hand prints, breaking our mugs and their wind, Christmas, however brief, meant a bit of respite.

I was dreading their return!

Today the kitchen is being fitted: so far casualties include the fridge door handle (Tony: “I hardly touched it “) The new hob (cracked) and my son, at home too ill to go to school, and who is now in addition bordering on hypothermia – why don’t they ever shut the fucking doors?

Then there’s “Foxy”,  Tony’s alter ego who has spent the last 40 minutes looking for his glasses. (I found them in a bucket of filthy water in the old kitchen!) and the hyperactive plumber with Tourette’s (“Where’s me fuckin’ spanner?”) He has just (thankfully) had it pointed out to him that he has connected the cold to hot and vice versa on the kitchen sink.

God give me strength.

© Andy Daly  2009