Since my foray into the world of ultra marathon running (surely I mentioned this to you? Full disclosure can be found in my back catalogue) and a spectacular running fall brought about by tiredness and inappropriate foot wear for mud, I have spent the following weeks recovering and predicting that I may have the potential to fall flat on my face again in the very near future – this time in a different context.

Although I am now a property owner, I have been fortunate enough to keep my lodgings until the messy building work is over (at current rate, this will be some time when hell freezes over). Usually, when I return from the money pit that I should now call home, I am tempted to just crawl under the duvet at my lodgings and pretend that I do not now own a ‘project’. Some days I can not even bring myself to drive up to the cottage because I know that when I do, the world of home maintenance will slap me in the face again.

It never looks like this on DIY SOS or ‘Love It or List It’.

I now receive messages from friends which read, ‘how’s your stripping going?’ (a question that no-one has ever felt the need to ask me) and, ‘let me know when your electricity is back on and I’ll pop over for a cuppa’.

The answer to the first question is, ‘flipping slowly on account of wood chip being the work of the Devil’. I may only have two rooms to prepare for the plasterer but I swear someone is returning each night to stick pieces of paper back onto the walls. I had hoped to find some graffiti under layers of paper, messages of encouragement left from previous owners along the lines of, ‘keep going you mad woman, you’ve got this!’. Instead I find that I have no finger nails left (yes, I have been introduced to the right tools, but a girl can still crave a manicure) and my back aches in places never previously attacked by Boot Camp. When the electricity is back on, and friends start appearing, each one seems to point out something new that will need tackling immediately if the property is not to crumble around me.

I remind myself that I am mentally resilient and that I am now armed with a loyalty card from B&Q – admittedly I have been using it to purchase frivolous items for the garden instead of power tools, but you can not just change a Zara girl overnight; I make progress by getting excited about my new watering can and some wood stain for the garden furniture I have cadged. By prettifying the garden I can just about cope with the odd stint of wall paper stripping. I am working the Pomodoro method – 25 minutes of swearing at the wood chip and then a break to potter around my garden. Since this time management method is named after a tomato, I may just need to slack off and visit a garden centre to ensure the appropriate background foliage.

I do well with my ‘chip away’ approach to DIY, until my hairdresser pops up to see my new purchase. We have established by now that he is not a standard hairdresser (no offence to any hairdresser reading this, but mine is a real Da Vinci Man), and, as he supplied me with all the contact details of every contractor I am now on speaking terms with, the least I can do is to make him a cup of coffee when he comes up to inspect my gaff. All is going well; he likes the garden and he arrives with some sunflower seedlings as a gift (it is on account of this gift that I realise I need to buy a watering can). Then he gets talking to my new neighbour and I can feel my anxiety starting to rise.

First my neighbour and hairdresser identify that my garden is built on stone and therefore will be a haven for snails. Apparently snails are up there with wood chip when it comes to devilry. I am already aware of the extent of insidious ivy creep across my front wall and show my hairdresser that I have started cutting it back with a pair of nail scissors (my hedge clippers are on the list for my next visit to B&Q). He nods approvingly, and then starts bashing about with a long stick in the undergrowth, telling me that he thinks he has seen something move and that it has a very long tail.

It turns out that not only have I bought a crumbling cottage from the 1800’s, but I have also purchased an air b’n’b for rats who particularly like the overgrowth in my garden and the chickens who live next door. My neighbour invites us in to see his garden – something he clearly prepared earlier – and as we walk to the back of his cottage, he points out my kitchen window (only accessible from his house) and comments, ‘I suppose you know that your window is about to fall out?). This is up there with the information from the electrician, ‘I suppose you know that you don’t need a key for your front door? You just nudge it).

I decide to stay brave and fearless and calm myself with the knowledge that I will not move in for another two months. If someone does gain entry to the property without my permission, let us live in hope that they take pity and pick up a wall paper stripper. There is certainly nothing of value to steal from inside the house. Any rat wishing to take up residency will soon realise that there is no food in the house – I do have a drink fridge (#theelectricityisnow working), but I think a bottle of rose would be wasted on vermin.

As it is half term, I have worked the Pomodoro Method across the whole week – a blitz of DIY here and there interspersed with a girlie couple of hours catching up with friends and drinking coffee – I just tell them not to look at my nails. My super woman mother even manages to squeeze in her 97th birthday, and sitting at the restaurant table to celebrate with my siblings, I can feel my head just wanting to rest on the table for it is so nice not to be surrounded by mess. Mum has a helium balloon tied to her walking frame and gets a little chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ from a table of children as we pass by. I wonder if mum might give me a turn on her walker for I am feeling ridiculously weary.

I aim to finish the week with a flourish. Favourite Son comes to see the cottage for the first time on a flying visit (thankfully he ignores my rat intel and gives my purchase a thumbs up), and Favourite Daughter arrives from London to get her hair cut – I tell you, my hairdresser is exceptional. She is only with me for a few days so I lure her into DIY with stealth. We start gently, downing a bottle of Whispering Angel on the patio (we justify that divine help will be needed), and try to rig up my newly purchased solar dragonfly lights (you can not take the dragonfly out of my DIY journey – I may not have any nails, but I still have wings).

Once FD’s hair is cut, I entice her back to the cottage for some medicinal sunshine… and encourage her to use the garden shredder that my hairdresser (aka Inspector Gadget) had popped up earlier in the week. Moi? I incarcerate myself inside and try to prise the last remnants of wood chip and polystyrene tile from the walls before the school holiday ends and I have the welcome distraction of another term. My DIY learning point is amazement at how much graft you can complete with the promise of a second bottle of rose (another house warming present, honestly) lurking with promise at the back of my drinks fridge. Favourite Daughter and I make a formidable team. Love her to bits.

Oh, and that second fall I predicted? It comes, but instead of being DIY or ladder-related, it is gifted yet again by careless running. I go for a therapy bimble with my next door neighbour to brag about my newly acquired B&Q loyalty card and clearly get too cocky approaching the home leg. I greet tarmac with my usual lack of grace and limp home with bleeding elbows and knees. I sense that I may be too bruised to make it back up to the cottage to wield a wall paper stripper once I have put Favourite Daughter back on the train to London…. but then home is where your drinks fridge is and I am a resilient old bird.