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Whine, whine, whine.

If you’ve heard my silly sob of the money pit, then you know I have narrowly escaped drowning a few times in the past 6 months. If neighbours ask why the hell there are workmen, again, traipsing through our doors (I am known on the street as Murphy Brown. Eldon, Murphy’s workman is here in a million incarnations), I am close to snapping, “The sound of drilling turns me on.”

Instead, I just sigh and explain away as if I am before the Board of Noisy and Insufferable Neighbours committee.

It is not a colourful story but then again, when is it ever? Whenever someone starts yammering on to me at a party about their house woes, I excuse myself for the bar.

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