Renovating a wreck can make you one, says ISABEL MORTON

I WAS speaking with a woman the other day who told me that she had banished every sign of her young son's Bob the Builder toys, DVDs, books and duvet covers. She said that the mere sight of the cheerful little builder character sends her into a spin. Never again, she said. Never again!

They had been renting for over three years, since they had moved back here from England and they were looking forward to living in their own home.

Having at last found a nice old house with "potential", they bought it, despite the fact that it was in need of "complete renovation". But they got it at the "right price" and were thrilled at the notion of getting their teeth stuck into the renovation project and were determined to project-manage the entire thing themselves.

Delighted when a friend recommended a "wonderful fellow" whom he had used himself, they spent a long evening admiring the results of his builders handy-work over a few glasses of wine.

Fast-forward four months of cold and depressing winter to the end of February, by which time (to put it mildly) the gloss had worn off, the enthusiasm had waned and they were sorry that they had ever contemplated the renovation project, let alone actually undertaken it.

Their friend's "wonderful fellow" was obviously considered to be a truly "wonderful fellow" by his girlfriend, but his wife saw him in a somewhat different light. She threw him out, he "took to the drink", the girlfriend moved on and, needless to say, there was precious little building work done.

The house was still an absolute wreck and by that stage, so were its new owners.

Builder number two appeared to be somewhat less dynamic than his predecessor and was employed because he was old, unattractive and unlikely to become distracted in quite the same way as the "wonderful fellow".

And indeed, he certainly wasn't a man who was easily distracted. In fact, he was so set in his ways that he basically ignored most of his clients' instructions and quickly and quietly got on with doing things his own way.

It didn't matter what they wanted, he obviously had different opinions, although he never bothered to verbalise them. Unlike the "wonderful fellow", communication was not his strongpoint.

Having been given a guided tour of the property, it became apparent that he was indeed a very good builder, except that he had absolutely no understanding of period architecture, no aesthetic eye and had no interest in wasting his time negotiating with his clients about design detail.

His work rate, however, was impressive. So impressive indeed, that his unfortunate clients became nervous wrecks wondering what he might have done by the time they called by, on the way home from work each evening.

They took turns being late getting in to work themselves, in order to be at the property when he arrived on site every morning and made desperate attempts at escaping again in the middle of the day, in the hope of catching him before he had made yet another "executive design decision".

Their nerves were in shreds, their own jobs were suffering and they were hardly getting a wink of sleep trying to second-guess him.

But he always managed to be one step ahead and invariably they ended up having to accept something because it was already a fait accompli.

They envied people who complained about their tardy builders who never showed up and, when they did, worked at a snail's pace.

Their job was galloping along, like a runaway horse. They felt as if they were cantering at full tilt, minus saddle and reigns, barely managing to cling on to the mane.

Every time they called a site meeting, their builder would shift from one steel capped boot to the other and glance at his watch. He would nod and appear to agree with everything they said, look with apparent interest and complete understanding at their sketches, magazine cuttings and design books and then promptly ignore everything and proceed with precisely what he wanted to do himself.

They tried pleading, cajoling and threatening, but to no avail. Eventually they realised that they just weren't speaking the same language.

They were not speaking "builder speak" - a language, which is far more precise than you might at first imagine and one, which takes some time to perfect. A language, which can only be learnt by osmosis, via years spent working on building sites.

A language few have either the time or the patience to learn, particularly given that they are extremely unlikely to ever need to use it again.

They have recently moved in to their renovated home and their young son was encouraged to change allegiance from Bob the Builder to Postman Pat as Fireman Sam was also banned - just in case.