The week just gone was hectic as you may have deduced from there being no new posts by me. But, touch timber, things will go more smoothly from now.

All piping and wiring have been reconnected. Well nearly - when marking out the foundations we found that an electricity pole is sitting right smack on one corner. It has to be moved as the council won’t allow the wall plan to be changed even by the 4cm needed. It’s at times like this I curse GIS, theodolites and all that goes with them. In the old days the wall would have just been realigned by 4cm and no-one would’ve noticed. Actually it would have been a couple of inches.

And what a hot week. By Irish standards it was roasting. Mid to high twenties every day. The grass in the paddock, when flattened by the diggers, dumpers, jeeps and vans*, turned yellow within an hour. There were frequent brushfires caused by sparks from the angle grinder cutting the steel mesh for the foundations. Once the fire spread to the rubble pile which caused a flurry of excitement.

Bock warned me about the dust. But I didn’t expect it to be so all pervasive. Everywhere would seem clean until the light at sunset showed up a greyish film covering everything. Even in rooms that were closed all day. Clean it and the dust would be visible again at dawn. Why do photographers love the half-light when it shows up the dirt like that?

Don’t get me wrong - I’m not house-proud and wuzzie. The dust doesn’t really bother me in that way, but I do fret over what it’s doing to my computers’ innards.

The foundations went in on Saturday. Eight men,** two** with hangovers, laboured non-stop (stopping is not an option with concrete) from 8:00 until 14:00. The heat was bitched about often and these outbursts, without fail, followed up by a ah, shur we shouldn’t complain. It reminded me of when I was small and my mum screaming at me when I’d do something wrong: Jesus, Christ almighty, wait ’til I get me hands on ya, ya little feker was always appended with a God forgive me for cursing. In the Irish psyche, declaring a dislike for a hot day, like cursing, must be apologised for.

The builders’ day ended with them setting aside an area to take a load of sand later. Very impressive. Bordered on three sides by sheets of plywood with SAND painted in large letters on the one at the back. No delivery driver could make a mistake. A smaller sign was placed nearby: mine pipe. I had to know what one was, wouldn’t you? I don’t know whether the foreman or I felt the more stupid.

* Plus one boyracer vehicle complete with alloys, sub-woofers, spoilers etc. Every building site must have a boyracer vehicle.

** Includes one young lad. Every building site must have a young lad, perhaps it is law - Someone to drive the boyracer vehicle.

In case you thought my mention of an outbreak of Arsenia constructoris at my place was just a sly preamble to the joke, it wasn’t. I do have builders here and will have for about six months. The house is being extended. Effectively doubled in size.

As anyone who ever had a house built from scratch, like MacDara’s doing, will know, it is a major headache. But extending or renovating a house, with all the existing pipes and cables needing to be rerouted, is like having your scrotum squeezed in a Vise-grip by a Bulgarian arm wrestler whose mother you insulted. (Sorry, Igor, I was only joking. Really! She’s a lovely woman. The beard suits her).

In my case, every single cable and pipe, and even the boiler house and dog kennel, is exactly where the new structure has to go. Has to go, because the county council say so. Muppets!

To make matters worse, and make me sing castrato, I have one of those semi-permanent timber offices (not as fancy as the ones in the link, mind you). A great idea at the time - no planning permission needed, fully plumbed, heated, and best of all, quiet. I even have a little kitchen area with fridge, cooker, microwave, cat-skinner etc. You guessed it, it’s in the way too. Once emptied and all services disconnected, it can be shifted easily. Or so says Robert the Constructionist.

But, as you do, over the years I’ve managed to stuff it with books, DVDs, old computers, more books, vinyl, things I don’t know the names for. It is also an overflow wardrobe. Oh, and there are even more books, if I could find them. They might be buried under my neighbour’s wedding presents. (Don’t ask).

So there’s my long weekend gone. And I reckon Tuesday too. Robert the Constructionist has promised it will be relocated and all services reconnected by that evening, but I don’t believe him. As Fr. McNally always says, a builder’s promise is about as genuine as a whore’s kiss. How he knows about builders is beyond me, but I reckon he’s right.

I’m thinking of calling in the World Health Organisation. There has been an outbreak of Builder’s Bum (Arsenia constructoris) at my place. There are more diggers and dumpers than you could shake a jumbo breakfast roll at. I suppose I shouldn’t complain - it took 6 years to get planning permission so I should be glad to see them making a start. And it reminded me of the time my neighbour was getting an extension built:

Katie was enthralled with the builders in their bright yellow jackets and shiny hard hats. She laughed at the way the big teleporter looked like the giraffe in her book. The cement, lengths of timber and freshly turned earth tickled her senses with new smells.

Being such a lovable little child, the builders took her under their wing and made her site-mascot. They kitted her out in a mini hi-viz jacket and hat. She was given little jobs to do and revelled in the praise she got in return.

That evening she bounded through the back door eager to tell her mum all about her day.

So you were working very hard, were you, honey, asked her mum.

Oh yes, mummy, very hard. I had to fetch the hammer for the carpenter. It was heavy, but I managed.

Well done, Katie. And did you get paid for all this hard work?

Yes mummy. Pat - he’s the boss - he gave me €2. John tried to give me €2 too, but I explained Pat had already paid me.

Well done, honey. That was very honest. Good girl. I’m proud of you. So will you be working tomorrow?

Well that depends, mummy. If that wanker over at Roadstone gets his finger out and delivers the right fucking blocks this time, we will. If he makes a bollix of it again, then we’ll be sitting on our arses all day pulling our plumbs.