Sue Pycroft

Sometimes, on a two-day weekend, we’re so busy sleeping and shopping and getting excited about Dr Who being on that we scarcely have time for a proper worry at all. But when we’ve got three days off in a row, those domestic trifles are soon dealt with, leaving a great void which lesser mortals would fill with barbecues or trips to the cinema but we choose to cram full of anxiety and dread.

I say choose, but I don’t think either of us consciously opts for stomach ulcers. It’s just that with a little time to stop and stare we can’t help noticing potential trouble ahead. There’s a mountain of jobs ahead, and neither of us has a clue how to even reach the foothills.

For example, the shed, now fabled in our neighbourhood for remaining erect against all odds and laws of physics, is at last looking like it’s abandoned all hope and is going to dismantle itself. Which means the tools and garden furniture will have to be moved into the garage. But the garage is full of two ex-kitchens, a double bed and a collapsed piano. Which means that we’re going to have to hire a skip to get rid of them. But the garage doors won’t open without collapsing. Which means we’ll have to fork out for new doors, too.

Meanwhile, inside the house, the list is no shorter. The shower-room is falling around our ears because of the damp. Which means we need to retile it and mend the ceiling. But there’s no point in doing that until we mend the extractor fan, which is in the loft. Though we can’t reach the loft cupboard because of all the boxes of old bank statements and A-level geology papers circa 1974 that are piled in front of the door. Which means shredding those first.

But the shredder isn’t working properly. We can run through this hopeless, unending list of problems and tasks without even stirring from the sofa, and always come to the same conclusion, which is that there is no conclusion. In fact, we both know, the only time we’ve ever seriously addressed our domestic chaos and outstanding DIY chores is when we’ve decided to put the house up for sale.

Suddenly, one call to the estate agent, and the tasks seem somehow manageable.

As we’re examining the dry rot or wet rot or whatever it is creeping up the back bedroom wall, I point this out to my husband. Say we pretended to ourselves that we were going to move, so that we got all the jobs done, and then stayed and got the same pleasure out of the refurbished house that the new owners would get… how does that sound?

That sounds completely mad, he says, though I can see he’s a little bit interested, because he then asks which estate agent I think we should go for.

I wasn’t thinking of actually going that far, I say. Not having photos taken and a For Sale sign in the garden. Just that we’d set ourselves a date that we’d get all the jobs done by, and then stick to it.

I’m not sure that would have the same effect, he says. I mean, when you’re moving, there are lots of things going on that reinforce it, like choosing mortgages and getting prices from removal companies and things. They make you realise that it’s all real.

What about mortgages, though? he says. Aren’t they quite hard to get at the moment?

Yes, but we don’t actually want a mortgage, I almost say, but stop myself. Hey, this is great. Neither of us has given a thought to DIY for several minutes, we’re so busy mulling over a non-existent problem instead.

You wouldn’t really shred my A-level geology notes, would you? He adds.

No, no, I say. Don’t worry.