Most of Monday was spent on photographs, which means my lumpy self balancing on a ladder in the dark while trying to aim a hot-to-the-point-of-self-immolation eBay flash and not remembering how the wireless trigger works. Taking photographs of finished work is a hassle only slightly less aggravating than the drama of huffing a desk to someone who knows what they're doing and having to pay them.

For months people have asked what I'm working on and for months I've said the desk. It stopped being an answer and became a line. Someone would ask, I'd say the desk, and we'd both nod at my lack of progress.

It took bloody forever because Monique went back to work, which means my children have somehow become my responsibility, and these ingrates do not appear to care how much I have to do.

After each interruption I came back to the bench and spent ten minutes remembering where I was, and another ten talking myself back into caring. I'm aware I'm a spoiled man-child with a semi-job whinging about having to look after his kids.

The customer came in the afternoon and stood in front of it, and I did the thing I always do, which is watch their face instead of the desk.

"Lovely." She nodded gently, and left.

A woman of few words.

Then I rolled the door down, and went for a long, long run.

Next week it's back to the fireplace surround, and after that the lamp, and after that the coffee table I've been thinking about since last summer. So when someone asks what I'm working on I'll have a new answer, which will also be the answer for bloody forever.

— Jake