A day that – as the final stages of the Grand Design for Slogger’s Roost are put into place – has been a long and exhaustingly eclectic melange of creativity, chores, odd repairs, debates, specifications and physical labour.

This restoration of my old hunting lodge here is not grand in the English sense of “appearing to be rather grand”, but really just ‘grand’ in the sense of big and complex. At one point this week there were three major pieces of plant, eight cars, three Poles, five Brits, four French persons and a very harassed property owner on site. Said owner also had other things on his failing mind….divorce, changed tax residency, dental implants, euro/Pound exchange rates, euro/Polish złoty exchange rates, pension annuity rates, bamboo watering rates, hourly rates….and limited time available (before earth-shifting plant leaves the site) to find characterful stones among the septic tank detritus for the pool surround.

I do realise that the vast majority of folks do not have either my choices or resources. So please don’t take either that or what follows as smug financial obesity: on the contrary, it relates to my desperate attempt to convert fiat currency potential loo-paper into something of more solid value.

My well produces drinkable water, although it needs a new pump. With the right planting of nut and fruit trees here now – and plenty of space for egg-laying chickens – it would be a piece of cake (given barter with local producers for meat and grain) to make this place completely self-supporting.

Anyway, there was creativity in the early hours today….in the shape of how best to convert an old barn into a rental property. But that was quickly replaced by the pressing need to wash dishes from the night before, clean the camping-car floor in order to keep invading ants from the gates, and then go to the supermarket in order to wash a month’s worth of mucky clothes at 60 degrees while shopping for the coming week’s food intake.

The unexpected repair took the shape of my temporary lower denture plate (about to be replaced by implants) falling to the floor and breaking in half.

I suspect very few of you have ever been called upon to glue two halves of a dental plate together. But having bought some maxi-glue this morning in our local Intermarché, I was that man faced with just such a task. The plastic teeth are back in my mouth again, as good as new. Thus the €175 cost of a dental consultation has been replaced by €2.15’s worth of fixative.

Following that interface (or perhaps intraface) it fell to various workers on site to show me brochures of Polish doors, railings and parquet floors; and digger operators to ask me where I wanted the trench in which were to sit a row of ten bamboo plants. I truly do get fed up of people telling me how invasive bamboo is: I’ve chosen it as a separation screen for privacy – but also because in my view it can invade as much lawn as it wants…..when you have 2.5 acres of grass to cut, every little less helps. We are not talking Japanese Hogweed here: I’ve controlled bamboo before, and it isn’t rocket science.

As for the trench itself, it was duly dug and – after soaking the bamboo roots liberally in water – my builder Marcus used his dumper truck to “help” me plant all ten. As at the bottom of the trench was half a ton of cow dung, it is possible that Marcus is the first builder to land his client literally as well as metaphorically in the shit.

But the reason I go to bed each night too knackered to even think about World Cup soccer is that the unravelling in Brazil cannot compete with the effort involved in moving some 1500 stones from the fosse septique excavation via tracteur tondeuse up to the pool. In order to complete this project without suffering total dehydration, it is necessary to arise with the sun, and work the two hours of relative cool prior to baking sun from 8 am onwards.

I shouldn’t complain: we’ve been having the most fantastic weather now for twelve days, and without it the works would not be anywhere near as far advanced as they are.

The strategy is simple: if the banks have no money, then – in the light of the rape of Cyprus – they will raid ours via their political slaves along with the usual smooth rationales for grand larceny. Myself, I’d far rather leave a family home to my kids than an empty bank account….and a private sector bill for the extortionate cost of aged care.

Drink alcohol, convert fiat cash into solid domiciles, and live in a region where life balance is more important than bank balance. This is the only way to fly.