"Stand over there and let me know if I need to stop," said Bruce, clambering aboard a digger the size of a Tiger tank and firing up an engine that could be heard 150 miles away in Inverness.
"Whaaaoooo!!" I shouted about seven seconds later, adding some frantic, flagless semaphore just in case Bruce hadn't got the message.
Pulling over a decrepit, old lean-to at the front of our house to make way for a lovely new extension with big windows to enjoy the view over the sea to Rousay and Orkney Mainland sounded simple enough - large cracks had appeared and the thing was already edging away from the house.
We hadn't bargained for one piece of timber not being quite as rotten as it looked. It was wedged under the strip of concrete (can't remember what it's called) at the end of the kitchen roof and began levering a good part of the roof into the air.
Fearing Mrs Pig Farmer's reaction to a large hole in the kitchen and, most important, damage to the Sky dish at such an early stage in the football season, I thought it best we went for plan B. A little use of the saw and we were up and running again, the solid concrete coming down surprisingly quickly.
What I hadn't bargained for was what was left. Somehow you don't notice pink when it's on the walls of a "room" used only for bringing on veg seedlings and sorting out the recycling bags.
Even more worrying was Sal's reaction. I can't imagine how the planning department is going to react to this one.