It's strange how home renovations can trundle along for months, barely registering progress, then suddenly zoom to a close. That's how it felt last week with the end peeping at me from around the corner instead of cocking a snook from afar. I realised how close we were to completion when my workers started multitasking instead of sticking to their roles: Ah Gok (electrics) put up art and Ah Ming (the muscle-man) took up cleaning. They were obviously under orders to wrap up the project, which resulted in a buzz of activity the like of which I'd not experienced since work started on my village house way back when. During the bustle, and a casualty (Ah Ming cut his foot, which required six stitches), I braved Ikea, a task I'd put off for as long as possible because the store gives me oikophobia. No, it has nothing to do with being terrified of yobs. It is an unwarranted fear of home surroundings. Too much tat will do that. It was also time to phone PCCW, which brought things to a screeching halt - literally. For the past couple of months, while work continued above head, I had camped on the ground level. I had already been hooked up for broadband TV and the internet on that floor. Now, with my first-level office ready, I needed a connection upstairs. At most, I figured, it would take three hours for the task to be completed. Three days and three groups of technicians later I faced the prospect of replacing my laptop with a typewriter. Apparently something was wrong with the wiring in my house and now online access on either level was as improbable as my acquiring technological nous overnight. 'Look at the cable your contractor gave you and compare it with ours,' a PCCW technician insisted, producing two multi-hued bunches of wires. 'I have no idea what I'm looking at,' I said because all that registered was the pretty colour schemes. It didn't help that I was no longer listening to anything that wasn't a solution. This was PCCW's fault. When the first technician failed to make a connection on Monday he mumbled something about damaged lines. A second bloke on Tuesday declared I had the wrong kind of wires and instructed Joe, my contractor, to install the right sort. When PCCW returned on Wednesday I assumed I would be watching Now TV and surfing the Net in minutes. My men had spent the morning cutting a hole in the false ceiling and replacing wires. 'Disregard what the young boys told you,' a senior technician declared hours later. 'They have no experience.' 'What are you proposing?' 'Rewiring.' At this point Joe popped. 'I refuse to do it again!' he screamed. Nothing else he said is printable. When calm returned, another hole was cut into my ceiling and more wires pulled out like unwilling beach worms. That meant another day of dust, more surface repairs and less work completed elsewhere in the house. As dusk fell I started vacuuming the bits of wire scattered through my house like the debris of a giant Christmas-cracker explosion. 'We've done it,' the senior technician suddenly yelled, clutching my hand to squeeze a thank you from me. Sure enough I was able to check my e-mail and watch the BBC. A week after the trauma I phoned PCCW to register a complaint about the inexperienced technicians and was told the technical support team would contact me within 10 days. When the call arrived, it was from someone who assumed my home was still unconnected. My complaint, I was told, would be passed back to customer service, who would be in touch. Third time lucky? We are talking about PCCW. Someone from the company called Cammy phoned while I was out and left a message that went something like this: 'Yada, yada yada ... yada, yada, yada. Please feel free to contact us on our hotline.' Then came the line that highlighted what I was dealing with. 'Thank you so much.' Cammy ended her call, imagining a compliant customer on the other end and continuing to read from a script without switching on her brain. 'You're welcome.' To share your renovation-related tales, e-mail Xiu Fang at features@scmp.com