'WITH RESPECT? CAN THERE BE TWO MORE MISUSED WORDS IN THE ENGLISH LEXICON?'

Ruth walker

I BLAME the fridge. Until it arrived to take pride of place in the family kitchen, I was content with my home's lived-in feel. It was relaxed. Child-friendly. Comfortable. Yes, it was a bit frayed round the edges, showing its age I guess, but the scars told a story of wars waged, of lives lived, of parties partied. Not unlike its owner.

Then came the Smeg, all glossy and new, and suddenly the rest of the house looked decidedly less so. As a result, I have been shamed into embarking on a major run of home improvements. A little liposuction for the lounge; some botox for the bedroom; a facelift for the flooring.

First, the builder arrives to do some exterior work. He starts on the bathroom window. Sadly, I happen to be using the facilities at the time. It's not pretty. Is there an etiquette for dealing with such situations? An accepted mode of behaviour that will somehow conceal the excruciating embarrassment on both sides?

In the event we manage to recover through the process of denial (a tried and tested routine for most of life's petty misdemeanours, from bad sartorial decisions to bad boyfriend choices). Still, I can't quite get over the fact that the builder has seen my bum. And every time he tells me he's going to crack on with the next job, I can feel the colour rise in my cheeks.

Just as I begin to think I've had my fill of tradesmen, the plumber tells me he can come next week. "How long do you think it'll take?" I ask. "Probably the whole week," he replies. "With respect, it's not a five-minute job."

With respect! WITH RESPECT?! Can there be two more misused words in the entire English lexicon? What he really means is: "You imbecile. I have absolutely no respect for you. And while our business arrangement may have fooled you into thinking you are the one in charge, make no mistake, I take orders from no one. Now shut up, make me a cup of coffee and don't forget the chocolate digestive while you're at it."

The moral of the story is, it seems, if you want a job doing properly, do it yourself. So I make a start on painting the bedroom. The Wild One volunteers his services. He thinks we might go into business together some day. Walker and Son. It's not that I have anything against painting and decorating as a career choice per se, however I fear the distribution of labour might be weighted somewhat unfairly. Do apprentices usually nip off every ten minutes to check the score at Easter Road? Or demand a tea break after half an hour? Or accidentally step on the paint lid, then walk around the rest of the house trailing gradually fading white foot-prints wherever they go?

My second mistake (after employing family members with a cavalier work ethic) was buying cheap paint. I suspect slapping several pints of semi-skimmed on the walls would have provided more effective coverage. Four coats on, I think we're finally getting there. But we're going to need a new carpet. And The Wild One needs new socks. And I'm trying to remember why on earth I started all this in the first place ...

• This article was first published in the Scotland on Sunday on October 10, 2010