I decide to chip in

Our new bathroom, as you will have seen, is painted blue. But not as blue as the air was in there this morning.

The bathroom guys returned around 8.30 to collect the glass, and fix one or two snaggings (like the bath taps being plumbed the wrong way round), paint that annoying piece of skirting board down by the toilet where the original pipe was, connect up the basin, put the door back on, and also to collect all their tools and sweep up. We all still hope the glass can be cut to size, but as it's toughened glass there's a chance that it will shatter while being cut. I don't know what we'll do then. We can't send it back now the package has been opened, and a replacement would be another £495. I think we've decided to worry about it if we need to.

After the men left, Nikki noticed the door handle was loose. I fetched my screwdriver. The handle is one of those where the bar is square on one side and threaded on the other. I tightened the knob on the square side, loosened the grub screw on the threaded side and spun the outer knob closer to the door so the handle didn't rattle. As I was retightening the grub screw, the screwdriver slipped, fell from my hand and landed on the tiled floor. Blade downwards. A small chip of ceramic flew up from beneath it, leaving a cream scar beneath an otherwise pristine grey surface.

I was speechless for a full minute, my head in my hands, collapsed disbelievingly against the wall. Our lovely new bathroom, not yet even completely finished. Now irretrievably marred by my own clumsy hand. Since the tile upon which the screwdriver landed - and by the way if it had fallen the other way up, only the rubber handle would have hit the floor - is right in the doorway, the chip stands out like a sore thumb whenever we walk in or out, and especially when sitting on the toilet.

It remains to be seen whether the tile can be replaced without damaging any others, or disturbing the underfloor heating which we haven't even had chance to switch on yet.

Meanwhile we're off to the Chorlton Players after-show party. There are sorrows to be drowned.