It’s week eight of the installation of a cheap Ikea kitchen in my flat, and an Albanian builder is slumped in an armchair in my sitting room. He’s shielding his face with his hand, Princess Diana-style, to hide the fact that he’s weeping.

My kitchen sink drama began when I rang a firm of local builders and they sent round a chap called Dave with a twinkle in his eye and a plan to rip off his employers.