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.

Tradesman-ese is one of the world’s least understood dialects, intelligible only to those on building sites 

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.

I just wanted to give up for the day when the fellow arrived and began a monologue in brogue, presumably about what he could do for us.

The BB walked him around the house, the pair of them speaking in tongues, and then they stood in the kitchen making white noise in front of me. All I could make out from the incessant babbling was ‘15 rads…ally piping…oil boiler… 300 litre cylinder…’. Neither of them drew breath, so far as I could tell, and it was unclear to me how they didn’t both fall down dead from lack of oxygen.

After a while, I managed to interrupt them to say: ‘Excuse me, how much is this going to cost?’ I was clinging to the side of the old Aga for warmth, the southern fried chicken was rock hard in the oven, and I was panic stricken that whatever this was might never end.

The plumber, leaning casually against the sideboard, mumbled something then smiled, and the builder b roared with laughter. ‘Seriously,’ I said, ‘can you give me an estimate?’

The plumber mumbled something and the BB told him that was about right – ‘You know it!’ – and the pair of them started laughing and off they went again. All I could make out was that they were getting stuck into insulting the EU and thoroughly enjoying it.

After that, the plumber kept referring to someone as ‘lads’. ‘Now then lads…’ it sounded like he was saying, and I think this might have been his way of including me.

I think he said it was going to cost €15,000 in labour but I couldn’t be sure. I have a vague idea he said the boiler would cost a couple of grand and the cylinder a couple of grand and the ally pipes were a couple of grand and some sort of pump was going to cost a couple of grand. But really I have no idea.

After that, they started walking around the house again, so I sat down and ate my dinner alone and by the time I had finished I could hear that they were outside on the driveway having a just-about-to-leave conversation. That went on for 40 minutes.

Then the man turned his car round, wound the window down and they had the window down conversation. That went on for half an hour.

I went to bed. The builder b came in a while later, stood in the doorway of the bedroom and told me how pleased he was. I told him I was pleased he was pleased.

The next morning the plumber rang, I handed the phone to the BB and the pair of them started again. If only I could speak the lingo I could work out if I’m getting any closer to a hot bath. But I can’t. So it will just have to remain a mystery.