Cheer up, darling, it may never happen

If you think walking past a building site is bad, try working on one

Builders. You sweat as you approach them, desperately trying to think of the ultimate retort to their inevitable "smile", "cheer up" or "hello darling" (and always fail), and in extreme cases you make a huge detour to avoid them. They make you blush, they tie your tongue, they make you forget how to walk normally (do I usually look up or down, or straight ahead?) But suddenly one summer, for reasons that are far too boring to go into here, I became one and found myself gangerman (guv'nor) to a group of builders.

The project lasted three months. The plumber was called Sam, the spark, Jon, the main builder, Linus ("my 'ouse has 23 windows and I built it myself"), the chippie, Larry. They were the mainstay of the group. Jack the brickie would join us as and when needed, as would the inseparable Eric and Ernie (yes really), Eddie ("I like maps and bell ringing") and someone called Tony. We started off as great friends - amusement and respect on their part, respect and fear on mine. "This is our gangerman," they would tell their friends in the pub. Proud as punch. They would stand when I left the table, open doors, be nice; they bought me a huge padded card for my birthday ("best card in the shop"). I was unbelievably impressed by their gallantry and their good manners. It didn't last.

In the beginning, all was fine, although I thought it odd that there was no swearing. They worked like Trojans. We had fun, singing along to Capital Gold and learning about each other: three of them had been inside and one was out on bail for transporting what seemed like two tons of cannabis in his truck ("I love that truck, more than my missus"). I worked alongside them as they patiently showed me how to take down ceilings, knock down walls and lay new floors. I cleaned up the rubbish, went to the builder's yard, made them tea. I didn't know what they did, and didn't presume to tell them, but I could make sure we came in to budget, that they came in on time and that they wore their dust masks, which they did grudgingly. ("Whadda I wanna wear that for?")

The novelty of having a female gangerman obviously spilled into their off-site conversation as a procession of girlfriends and wives visited the site. "I'm glad I've seen you," said Sam's wife. "I thought you were some dolly-bird." They rang me at home. "What time did Linus leave the site then, love? 'Cos he's not home yet and I'm sure he's seeing that tart in Islington again." My loyalties - woman/builder - were tested (Linus had indeed gone to visit the tart in Islington). I covered his tracks.

Then it started to go wrong. They got to work later, and went home earlier. Sometimes they didn't come in at all. I invented a new rule. For every 15 minutes they were late, or went early, or skived, I would dock pounds 20. And if they didn't like it they could leave. They didn't. One day Linus tried to convince me, blinding me with building jargon, that a wall had to be knocked down and rebuilt two inches away - at a cost of pounds 2,000. And he knew just the man to do it. We screamed at each other for half an hour, more wearing than any office politics (yet infinitely more honest). I won. "She's a tough bird," I heard Linus tell Tony. "I told you she wouldn't fall for it," he replied.

Then the sexual stuff started. "You ask her," "No you," bantered Sam and Jon. "Ask me what?" "Well ... do you go out with boys?" "Do you mean, am I a lesbian?" This caused blushes. "Well, you're always in overalls." "I work on a building site, Sam. What do you want me to wear, a marble wash-denim mini?" Stupid question - the answer was yes. This was followed by a week of constant talk about the size of their penises. "Well she nearly fainted when she saw my dick, screamed, couldn't walk for a week." Etc. They watched for my reaction; there wasn't one, so they egged each other on more. Who could use the f-word the most? Would I flinch when they used words like c--t and split beavers? I didn't. That Friday afternoon, just before knocking-off time, I had had enough. I hadn't spoken for much of the day, bored by their childish banter. "Oooh, she's all quiet. She needs a good ride on My Little Pony," spat Jack. "OK Jack," I said. "Get them off and let's do it. Here." "Ay?" he said, dusty face suddenly crestfallen. "Well you've been going on all week about the size of your dick, so it'd better be good."

Of course he didn't - he wasn't going to risk his friends finding out that his Little Pony was One Small Vermicelli. But now I had shown him up in front of his friends; and the others, in a fever of "phew, that could have been me", took his side. Provocation was not to be my defence. They hated me ("I never want to meet another bird like you again," was Sam's parting shot). The rest of the job passed by in virtual silence and we parted enemies. But I learned two very useful things during my time as a builder. First that builders are just the same as City gents, only more honest. Second I now know what to shout back as I pass a building site. But that, my lovelies, I'm not telling.