This is what years of watching home renovation shows has done to me

Lost in an innocent world of imagination and wonder, my four-year-old nephew sat on the floor, playing with Lego, building a little house. 

And I thought to myself “Awwww, he’s so cute! But, why is he putting a window on the south-east wall? That’s going to play havoc with the summer sun. And what kind of shoddy bricklaying is he doing? No colour consistency, no bonding pattern. And why is the house on wheels? Think about design aesthetics, kid. THINK ABOUT IT!”  

Years and years of watching Grand Designs and The Block and House Rules have completely renovated my mind, remodelled my brain and refurbished my senses, turning me into into a damp-proofed, tuck-pointed architectural pain in the arse. 

I can’t help myself: if I’m at the beach, I refuse to build a pathetic inverted-bucket McSandMansion. No, I’m building a great gothic Gaudi cathedral with soaring spires and towering turrets, all carefully constructed using the highly-skilled technique of Fist-Sphinctered Mud-Plopping. Not anyone can be a Fist-Sphinctered Mud-Plopper. You’ve either got it or you don’t.

If I’m building a house of cards on the coffee table, I won’t just make-do with a wonky, lightweight lean-to eyesore. I’ve got to go for The Petronas Twin Card-Towers in KL, assembled using pre-stressed triple-reinforced spades, with an exclusive penthouse-deck-of-cards, all clubs and queens. You can’t knock the thing down: it’s earthquake-resistant, typhoon-resistant and jealous-spouse-secretly-nudging-the coffee-table-with-her-knee resistant.

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Even when I’m eating my dessert, I’ll eat it architecturally. Just a month ago I recreated the Sydney Opera House using a bowl of Goulburn Valley peach segments. And my opera house had better internal acoustics and a more functional concert-hall orchestra pit. Slash that through your slashed Danish ø, Jørn Utzon, slash that.  

So it was agonisingly painful watching my dear little nephew build his artless careless wheely-house hideosity. 

No, it was my duty as an uncle to give him a house-building masterclass: I got down on the floor, shoved him aside, and took over the job, acting as architect, builder, project-manager and all 12 sub-contractors. 

First I demolished the existing structure. Then I laid down new Lego foundations. Then I built up the brickwork in an elegant Flemish Bond (it worked well with my Bauhausian Boho bungalow). 

Everything was going superbly, then I turned away for a second to find a long brick to act as a load-bearing beam for my cantilevered terrace, and when I turned back … the kid was randomly plonking a yellow brick onto a blue wall!  Without architect approval! 

“No, stop!” I said. “That doesn’t go there! It’s ruining the line of my Euro-appointed kitchen!”   

Then I built a Lego security-hoarding to keep him off the construction site, using Lego razor-wired cyclone-fencing. 

Eventually he got up and went off to watch Paw Patrol on TV, which was a huge relief, because I had a lot of hard work to do. This was high-pressure stuff. I was already over budget. I was way behind schedule. 

And I had a Lego family who wanted to move in by Christmas.