A sudden burst of energy saw renovations for Mother-in-law's house completed. Since putting it on the market last week we've been jumping to the tune of the inconsiderate real estate agent, to keep all environs within and without spotless.

Yesterday, an hour before the 'open home' was due to start we drew back drapes and blinds, and unlocked doors and windows to allow the scent of freshly mown grass and spring blossoms to waft through. When John rolled back the padded covering of the spa pool, blue water glittered like diamonds as the sun shone through bevelled glass windows.

There are locks on most doors to ensure that burglars can't get into the lounge where his mother keeps her treasures. Large ebony elephants with curved ivory tusks used to march across the tops of glass fronted cabinets that were full of cute little dolls from around the world.

I have just weighed one of the elephants, 4.3 kg. The exclamations of visitors who are grounded at sight of these 'hefalumps' makes me feel that our house is museum-like, so perhaps we'll sell them on EBay or TradeMe along with her picture gallery.

There will be another 'open home' today, so I must prepare. How nice if our euphoria lasts until the house is sold. All our false starts as efficient, cheerful and competent tradesmen have been forgotten. We're back to being reasonable with each other.

John and I decided to get into the house renovation business. Before finishing mother-in-law's house a few days ago, we were to become adept at all trades, our skill ratios off the charts.

Being in house renovation sounded like one of the ‘coolest’ jobs on the planet; imagining ourselves as architects, demolitionists, plumbers, builders, carpenters, plasterers, painters, electricians, interior decorators – carpet and vinyl layers, paper hangers, electronic engineers and lowly gardeners.

But we couldn’t agree on our initial planning because it was too grandiose and soon we were overwhelmed with mess. Intentions of removing weight-bearing walls and building a new double garage became obsolete.

My job was to do something about the house contents stuffed into every room. So over time everything that I could lift was packed into my car and deposited at home.

As I was moving gear out John was moving an arsenal of tools in. The fact that a secure shed was just outside the back door was deemed unsuitable; it being quicker to find a tool underfoot!

Furniture was dismantled and moved repeatedly from room to room, as were the tools, while we ripped up the thick long-pile carpet. That was one of the sweatiest and most difficult of all tasks. There must have been a more efficient way of yanking up the carpet and removing millions of staples! Luckily, oldest son (24) muscled in on the job.

Next John donned a gas mask and armed with a scraper tackled the heavily textured asbestos ceilings. He rapidly turned into a ghostly grey-white creature floating about in the cosmos. That was the first time I went on strike, not being in the spirit and also being averse to dying from asbestosis. Nor could I see to do a damned thing while wearing a gas mask.

After completing the ceiling in one room, John relented. He called in the asbestos removers who draped rooms in plastic tents before spraying water on the ceilings.

Eventually I became the official wall-paper remover. Some layers when wet just pulled off, but others I hacked off bit by bit, hour after boring hour. Younger son (22) finally gave me a couple of days’ respite.

In my plasterer’s hat I slapped plaster over rough patches and holes gouged in the wall, before sanding. To my chagrin John plastered the walls again. Such a perfectionist he was because after I had laboured over the walls yet again with a heavy electric sander, John plastered them for a third time. That was it; my best efforts weren’t appreciated! Again I went on strike.

What a fiasco ensued when John dismantled and removed the fire place. I had developed a sense of when things were about to happen, so avoided the flue as it crashed down. Then the lounge ceiling dipped threateningly because the stringers had been cut (by the original installer). Later when John had replaced the wooden stringers I staggered under a huge sheet of plaster board while assisting in repairing the broken ceiling. I’m no longer as tall as I used to be and now suffer from torti collis from time to time.

Before plastering, the ceilings had to be painted. I used a roller for the first time but don’t know what went wrong because paint splattered all over the place. John was furious.
“Finish the bloody ceilings yourself,” I swore.

To be continued.