PICK YOURSELF UP. DUST YOURSELF DOWN …

They say that small things satisfy small minds. I prefer to take a more Franciscan view and see virtue in simplicity. But I would.

It is certainly true we all overcomplicate, and burden, our lives with things that don’t really matter. And worry away at inconsequential trifles that would melt away if we were just able to stand back and leave well alone. Over the last few months, I’ve done my fair share of worrying – and not least because, with major building work going on, there was nothing I could do save for buying things for my house in a desperate attempt to keep the dream alive.

So, last night – back home despite the inevitable muddle - I’d have been happy with anything. And the pared back joy of my life – as the Persian poet penned = was a book, a jug of wine, and, if not exactly enjoyed beneath the bough, the awning at my favourite bar effected a more than adequate substitute.

And the reason for my contentment, as I have just said, was that finally - finally – I’ve moved back into my house. And it’s habitable - if not exactly either tidy or entirely what I asked for. So, forgive me if instead of any insight into the human condition, I simply breath a huge sigh of relief and raise a glass to everyone who has helped keep me sane as the 40 predicted days stretched to five months work and, occasional, fits of extreme bad temper.

That finally resulted – as a desperate attempt to get things moving – in me deploying the very worst thing you can ever say to someone. And what, I hear you chorus, was this terrible insult or dire threat I let loose on my Principal Contractor? Well! I had, at other stressful moments, exhausted [in multiple languages] every expletive I knew – as well as creating some new and anatomically unlikely originals. But, finally, I snapped and resorted to telling him I was, ‘VERY DISAPPOINTED’ in that, ‘more in sorrow than in anger’ sort of way everyone’s Mum has used when all else has failed. I’d no idea if it would work in a different culture. But, Dear Reader, I can report I suspect it must be universal.

I was reminded recently about when, ‘it will do’ just won’t do at all. My renovation has had this in spades, bucket loads - and maybe a whole cement mixer thrown in.

And the most revealing part isn’t the amateur attempts to get me - the one paying - to settle for, at best, not quite the thing I wanted. Or even outright refusal to contemplate my wishes. What got to me was two things: the lies and the unwillingness to give it a go.

When it came to untruths and excuses I have to hand it to my builder. He was certainly inventive. His tales ranged from the infantile to the fantastical. The reason for not fitting a cat flap were various: we don’t have them here - idiotic when I was standing there with the box in my hands - Amazon gets everywhere; it will encourage mice- I have two cats! And, the best yet, it will let snakes into the house. Not once – not once in 20 years - has a serpent [other than the usual green-eyed viper of envy] slithered off the street, across my little, tiled courtyard to access the shady recesses of my Aegean but-and-ben through an open door. I doubt they were awaiting the invitation of a cat flap.

Oh! sharper than a serpent’s tooth has been the tally of tales from my unlikely Scheherazade:

§????A small bathroom sink wouldn’t allow me to do my washing - I have both a dishwasher and a washing machine. So, what exactly I wanted to wash in my bathroom sink left me flummoxed. There is a decent basin in the kitchen [well, there is now the hideous, trendy black monstrosity I didn’t order has been removed and replaced];

§????The heater. in the guest bedroom could have gone in three places. It was installed in the one that meant the bed wouldn’t fit - it’s a compact space. My solution was to move the radiator or get a smaller one. His was to lob a bit off the end of the bed. A solution that would have meant my nephew would have had to fold up like origami to get to bed when he arrives for his holidays. I’ll draw a veil over why the sleeping arrangements were not thought to have any bearing on my friend - and regular visitor - Richard. Suffice to say there was a widespread belief he didn’t use the spare room; and, although I understand cookery and sex are said to be closely linked, the humdinger was

§????The induction hob. I’d paid for it but a ceramic hob was delivered. I was told it didn’t matter because they looked the same. Take it from one who knows, looks ain’t everything.

There have been other things: the bifold doors that didn’t materialise between the living room and the hall because the new fuse box got in the way; the refusal even to attempt light wells to give me natural light in the kitchen; the fact I’d to send the kitchen fitters - who, to their credit were happy to learn something new - a YouTube clip about jointing worktops rather that fixing two pieces together with iggy, nasty plastic strips.

Believe me. I have come to know all about ‘it’ll do’.

No, it bloody won’t.

And that goes for APS too. The association is always trying to up its game.

In the last couple of weeks you’ll have seen us start rolling out guidance notes. You may even have tried to use the links in the messages we’ve sent you. I’ll save you the bother - they are not likely to work.

And this isn’t because we are being careless and think ‘it will do’. It’s the opposite - we amend things in light of comments and new information. So, instead of a link, I will commend you to the APS resources section on the website. The most up to date information is there. In future, we’ll just let you know when it’s time to look.

Otherwise, you get a broken link. And that’s not in any way what effective communication is about.

But today I am happy just to keep quiet and carry on. Tomorrow is another day - and then the snagging will start.

Oh! the joy.