SO, dear reader, as you know, I moved house four weeks ago.

I haven't yet moved into my house, oh no - but the builders have - they moved in on the day of completion and have been there ever since.....well almost.

"How is it going?" I hear you ask. Don't. Just don't.

It-is-a-disaster-zone.

Deep breath - I have officially run out of money. The house has no water or heat. The kitchen hasn’t been built and the ceiling has caved in upstairs. The staircase is so dangerous that you can only get up or down it on your bottom – any other way you will end up with club feet or a broken neck.

The builders are like the shopkeepers on the 1970s children's programme - Mr Ben.

Meanwhile, Wiltshire Council is charging me the full council tax – even though my so-called home is empty, sad and uninhabitable.

And overnight, a rock of Gibraltar-style creation has appeared on the lane - so parking has become a debacle.

Meanwhile four-year-old Mars has become a lunatic so The Teen is taking her life into her hands each time she rides, which is every day. She might be smiling but I most certainly am not.

So all in all, you can imagine how relaxed I have been over my two-week holiday at home on the building site.

So, I have come to a bit of a realisation.

Maybe preserving the past of historical homes should be left to the National Trust and not Karen Bate.