Firstly let me deal with the complaint that flooded in due to my absence last week. It is high summer, technically, and I was having a weekend off, I might say a richly deserved weekend off as it happens. Sorry I didn’t bring a note from my mother. I went to Broadstairs since you ask which I should really keep secret because it is the most charming of places and I wouldn’t want it ruined by you all rushing down there.

And talking of loveliness brings me to today’s topic. I understand why it took over 20 years to build the Taj Mahal, and twice that time has been lavished on the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona but in terms of effort neither of these begins to compare with what’s being built next door to me. And it’s not even a mausoleum or a cathedral. It’s just a fairly small suburban house. For over two years armies of construction workers have laboured on that building and no day passes without a juggernaut arriving with yet more materials. They could have made a life-size copy of Mont Bkanc just piling them all on top of each other. Due to the narrowness of the drive and the lack of turning opportunities at the other end the goods have to be taken from the delivery vehicles on a fork lift truck which then reverses down the drive. Bleeping. Bleeping very loudly indeed. This can go on for eight solid hours. If the Chinese had had that sound they wouldn’t have invented water torture. Sometimes this is accompanied by the noise of drilling or hammering or angle grinding. Ten or more cars and vans can be parked in the drive so if anyone wants to leave, or there is more bleeping to be done, they all have to come out into the street. The preferred place to wait whilst this shunting goes on is across my drive, obviously. Often the drivers get out and have a fag and a natter under the window, occasionally in English. Toss into this heady mix the two Portaloos which have been sited under my kitchen window and you may well begin to wonder why it has taken me two years to reach axe-wielding point. The camel-backbreaking straw was a lorry demolishing a lamppost outside my door this morning which could have destroyed my car, or more importantly me come to that.

But let’s look on the bright side. Research reveals that flossing is apparently a complete waste of time. I once flossed religiously, fanatically between hygienist appointments and it made not one iota of difference. The girl tutted away as though I hadn’t been near a toothbrush for three months so I never bothered again.

Luckily, I still have enough left to garrotte the next builder I see. Be afraid, Bob, very afraid. Lady K is in no mood for trifles.