FOOLS and bairns shouldn't see things half done and I'm certainly no longer a bairn, so you can draw your own conclusions.

It was bad enough getting the place cleared out. Why were there green split peas in the tin labelled wheatgerm? Ye gods and little fishes, look at the "best before" date on these (yes, but they're dried beans, surely they go on for ever, that's why they're dried). It's years since we made homebrew so who needs a bag of corks and plastic tops?

There were the hard decisions. Surely the superabundance of glass and crockery, needed when I regularly had a couple of dozen or more for a buffet meal, could be severely culled. So could various gadgets which had seemed a very good idea - at the time. Bring in the jumble box.

In spite of putting everything I thought I'd need where I could put my hand on it, I'd thought of far too little and we're playing hunt the wotsit all over two bedrooms.

Yes, we're having the kitchen refitted.

Two days in, we had four vans, five men, two radios tuned to pop, a neurotic cat and pouring rain. I ran away to the office and left Sir making tea.

As I write, half done would be a very generous estimate. No-one at all, never mind the fools and bairns, should be allowed anywhere near this empty shell unless they're involved in turning into reality that pristine computer image of the new kitchen I've propped up in the dining room to keep me sane.

You don't believe for one minute that I've taken my own advice, do you? You're right.

It looks ghastly, all bare plaster, bare concrete floor, dusty, I can't believe ... and yet, the power point discussion I had with the electrician before I ran away this morning has led to a better arrangement than I'd imagined and the one short run of unit carcases in situ under the window has a long spirit level lying casually across it, with the bubble so dead centre Tommy Walsh couldn't fault it.

But excuse me, I must go and tape something over the gaping extractor hood vent (old one out, new one not yet in) before large moths or, worse, a passing bat, mistake it for somewhere interesting.

After that, I fancy a mug of hot chocolate. If I can find the chocolate jar, that is. The milk is in the fridge, now in the hall and - aagh, I unplugged that two hours ago so I could vacuum up the straying concrete and plaster dust and I don't remember switching it back on .... I have a mantra: "It will be lovely when it's finished." I keep repeating it to myself very firmly and very calmly, while trying not to look at the half-done job and gibber. It will be lovely when it's finished. Honest.