Builders next door.

I think one of life's great annoyances is Builders Next Door. I'm suffering from them now, sounding like they're trying to break through from one house to another. This whole tableau is like one of those shonky painkiller adverts. I'd quite like to hit builders where it hurts. They've been at it for months now, I have it in my mind that they're building some kind of James Bond villain's lair.

I've been doing some ironing this morning - my mum has this affable contraption that's a sort of hybrid George Forman grill/trouser press. When it comes to shirts, you'd probably be better off breathing on them for five minutes and then sitting down on them. When it comes to flat stuff - jumpers, trousers and the like - it is unbeatably swift. Alas, I am the same with ironing as with people, it's all fun and games and enthusiasm until I burn myself. So there I am, shirt, shirt, jumper, t-shirt, t-shirt, polo, trousers - I find for the past 20 minutes I've been looking at the copy of Barack Obama's book my dad inexplicably got for my mum on her birthday in February.

It looks marvellous on the bookshelf, it really does - for this should be a prime consideration when arranging your tomes in public view - but I can't help but feel he got a bit panicked and legged it into The Works and bought the first thing his hand found. I always get that worry when it comes to Christmas and birthdays - have I bought enough? Is lots of little presents the way to go, or should it be a medium central one and a number of satellite cheapies to add bulk, or is one gasp-inducing gift definitely the way to go? All paths fraught with danger.

The builders have stopped. Time for a cup of tea.