Once-upon-an-adolescence I had a dream. The perfect world would be a house full of sexy, sweaty, tradesmen doing my bidding; me, not having to work, just give orders and watch them strut about the house… with power tools. Alas, I was wrong, so very, very, wrong. It wasn’t a dream. It was a prophetic nightmare. One that lasted seven months, SEVEN long months. Tradesmen do not do your bidding. They do whatever they bloody like. They drink all your coffee (Note: Shower screen Guy can drink all the coffee he likes), track through the house in mud encrusted boots, and generally sweat in a way that is neither sexy nor sanitary (unless you’re Shower screen Guy). It took the threat of a law suit, and a hell of a lot of nagging, but The Boat is finished! Yes, I am guilty of using the girl-pout to get what I wanted on several occasions. Really, though, who cares about my fall from feminist grace?  The repairs are complete, and with them my nightmare. Mum and Dad’s digs are DONE and more importantly I’ve earned my right to free rent until the end of the eon. I never thought I’d be so happy to have the house rid of men, it seems so unnatural to me. Nor did I think I’d be wrapped for joy to be back at my laptop (my true life partner) giving myself carpal tunnel.

As a parting gift Filthy Andersen, who bailed two weeks before The Boat’s completion (BASTARDO!), dropped over his business card. Apparently, after 7 months of him dodging my calls, I didn’t have his number? Less shockingly, he invited himself in for a drink one final time to repeatedly tell me he was “out of the development, but not out of my life,” if I didn’t want him to be. ‘No, no, really, I want you gone from that too. My skin can’t handle steel-wool scrubs much longer.’ I desperately wanted a vino when he asked me if this knowledge brought me comfort. ‘The knowledge that I don’t have to politely suffer your advances for another day of my life? Yes, actually, that brings me great comfort.’

Yesterday, I broke The 5km Barrier and went for lunch… in another suburb! There’s no point in denying it. I’ll freely admit it. I did rather smugly yell ‘FAR KEW’ as I drove (read: tore) out the entrance to the estate (in Mum’s car).