It’s 8.15am on the most miserable day in February and I’m battling it out against the elements to bring breakfast to our builders. Four cups of steaming hot McDonald’s coffee balance precariously on top of a greasy bag that threatens to burst at the seams any minute, spilling the contents (four breakfast muffins, extra hashbrowns, sauces and about 20 mini packets of sugar) onto the murky pavements.

Why am I putting myself through this? Because back at my house – or the building site that will be my house when it’s finished – are four hungry blokes I’m paying to gut our house. And my compulsive need to please them apparently knows no bounds.

This dance went on for months. Ever since I willingly handed over the keys and literally all of our life savings to my trusty team of expert tradie

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