I have never consulted a therapist. Not that I haven't needed the help some must offer, but pride, embarrassment and an unshakeable (but probably mistaken) belief that only weak people resolve conflicts this way has kept me from going to shrinks, life coaches, relationship mentors, spiritual counsellors, communication experts and the like. Then I heard of renovation coaches. No, I didn't see an ad for one in HK magazine (although I did spot something about an 'emotional freedom technique practitioner'). A friend told me renovation coaches were a new breed of therapist in the US and that Hong Kong could do with their help, judging by the stories I'd been relating about dream projects turned nightmares. 'Maybe you could have long-distance consultations,' suggested the friend, who lives in San Francisco, not that that has anything to do with anything, of course. 'Find a couch, lie back and think of, er, power drills?' 'Tempting.' I was half serious. Part of me wanted to reach out for help. The other insisted that therapists would never be foolish enough to talk themselves out of a job. Cure someone of whatever is wrong and you risk losing that client forever. Work on my village house has yet to cause sweats and screaming in the middle of the night, but that's probably because I've had no trouble releasing my feelings in the dead of day. When I trod on a nail protruding from a plank flung from my first-floor balcony on to the terrace below, my workers thought they heard a banshee. When the same happened a second time the house mysteriously emptied. Renovation coaches, as far as I can tell, will not prevent accidents like that from happening. According to descriptions found on the internet, these consultants are not so much therapists as scarily organised people willing to do the legwork and hold your hand, for US$95 to US$300 an hour. They tell you whether your plans are feasible, assist with disputes and keep schedules on track. In other words they manage the managers. But who supervises them? Despite having two architects and a contractor to oversee my revamp, I have had to play monitor. At a time when everyone in the industry seems stretched - taking on more projects than they can handle - mistakes multiply. It helps that I continue to live in the house while it's being remodelled. Even so there have been blunders built in before I've had time to holler: 'STTOPP!' In just one week several snafus have made me long for a coach, cop, chief executive - anyone who could waggle their finger at potential problems and be Mr Fix It if they occurred. First I discovered my bathroom window had been installed the wrong way. No one asked in which direction I wanted it to open and I didn't think to give instructions. Now my neighbours can see me au naturel. Then I noticed the ceiling fan positioned directly over my work desk, so loose sheets of paper would zip around the room when it was turned on. Yesterday I shrieked at the realisation that the bedside light switch was sited high on the wall, which meant I couldn't reach it from a horizontal position. 'But you can stand up and turn out the light,' one of the workers said, giving me a look that read, 'Quit the princess act.' 'That's what the switch by the door is for,' I sniped. 'This one should have been 60cm off the ground.' Poor me. When the workers clocked off at 6pm I returned to my future bedroom and glared at the offending switch. Maybe I could flick it off with a toe if I performed a headstand on the mattress. The friend from San Fran called before I could break my neck balancing on my head. 'I've had an awful week,' I bleated. 'Why?' That was my cue for unloading. An hour later and I still wasn't done. 'So now you know what it's like refurbishing a home,' I said. 'Maybe you should become a post-traumatic stress disorder renovation consultant.' I could smell the wood burning across the Pacific. 'Feel better?' he asked. 'Much.' 'That will be 150 bucks.' If you have renovation-related tales you would like to share, e-mail Xiu Fang at features@scmp.com
