The art of speaking tradesman-ese

The plumber and the builder conversed at top speed, making a combined sound that was so strange it seemed likely only bats or aliens from outer space could make sense of it.

The chap who had come to price our new bathrooms was gabbling in a thick west Cork accent, giving absolutely nothing away to me, while the builder boyfriend was machine-gunning him back in extreme cockney.

However, while it sounded to the untrained ear like the two men were speaking different languages, it quickly became apparent that they were, in fact, completely in tune with each other and understood each other perfectly.

This is because they weren’t speaking English or Irish, I realised, or any kind of dialect indigenous to a geographical place. They were both speaking tradesman-ese. This is the universal language all men who do manual work speak to each other in. It is one of the world’s least understood dialects, intelligible only to those who have worked on building sites. There is no dictionary or translation app for it, and it seems unlikely that any woman can speak it, though I’m happy for those who know different to write in.

In any case, it was hopeless for me to try to get a word in edgeways. I realised I might as well put the kettle on, make tea and serve cake.

So there we were in the kitchen at gone 8 p.m. after this plumber came all the way from Cork city down the winding peninsula roads to see whether he wanted to take on our rambling old house and do a re-plumb.

My southern fried chicken was in the oven giving off a delectable smell after a hard day watching the BB putting in fence posts round the lower field – he drove the posts in with a fence banger and I stood next to him shivering and handing him insulators.