James on builders

I've decided to have some building work done on my house, and so obviously my life is about to turn to misery and I'm going to bankrupt myself buying sugar.

But for once, and having been stung a bit in the past, I actually went to the trouble of getting four estimates from four completely independent builders. That way I could choose the most competitive and competent.

The first was a young Kiwi guy, very ambitious, who was a bit sniffy (rightly) about the way the British build their shower cubicles. I liked what he was saying, and his price wasn't bad.

The next bloke was recommended by a friend whose house was completely rebuilt, and very nicely too. He had some interesting and very left-field ideas about roof-mounted windows, and he was only marginally more expensive than the Kiwi chap.

The third was older and more seasoned, a gentleman builder from the East End, and who wore a hat. He had an air of great wisdom about him, and he came in significantly cheaper than the first two.

Finally, there was a bloke I've used before, who has a nice dog that comes to work with him. He's good (the builder), his estimate was middling, and I can take the dog for a walk and a game of ball when the sound of Death FM gets too much for my nerves.

Tricky. There wasn't much in it. So in the end I chose the older chap with the hat, but not, as you might imagine, because he was the cheapest. I chose him because he turned up in a gold Jag.

Now I know we've said on the telly that Jag drivers are likeably disreputable, but I can't help respecting a man who has spent 40 years building up his own building business and then rewarding himself with a gold Jag. Two of the others turned up in vans and one of them on a scooter. Any idiot can drive a van or a scooter, and often does, but it takes class and the right attire to pull off a gold Jaguar.

"Any idiot can drive a van or a scooter, and often does, but it takes class and the right attire to pull off a gold Jag"

To be honest, I knew he was my man the moment he arrived and sunlight leaping from the burnished nose of his motor turned the windows of my kitchen to fire, as if a second sun had risen. A man who can drive a thing like that with dignity can be relied upon to build things square and ‘make good' to a high standard. If he'd turned up in an Audi I'd have doubted his artistry.

Interestingly, the gold Jag wouldn't have worked if he'd been an insurance salesman. It works because he is a builder and a rock of dependability in a profession of dubious reputation. His gold Jag is like an orb or sceptre carried by a monarch, a symbol of immutable authority. Or something.

Now I think about it, I chose my accountant largely on his name, which suggested a superb pedigree where money matters were concerned. But what really clinched it was his Maserati Bora. A man who drives one of those must ultimately put pleasure before personal financial management, so he was my man. He later advised me to buy a Ferrari.

If he'd driven a C-Class diesel I would have known, instinctively, that I would die a rich man on paper but full of regret, rather than a poor one with a happy folio of memories to replay in my mind.

My dentist has a 911 GT3, largely because dentists are very rich. But that doesn't alter the fact that he could have bought a Corvette, and I just wouldn't want that sort of man anywhere near my teeth.

Now this has got me thinking a bit. Theories about what car we drive and what it says about us are as old as the car itself, which is why we still believe that a man with an E-Type has a long bonnet because he's got a small chap. But I've never really bought into this, mainly because what other people think is obviously of no concern whatsoever. On the other hand, if it's good for business then it might be worth considering.

I mean, I don't want to labour the point, but a plumber has just turned up outside to work on a neighbour's house, and he's driving an old Volkswagen Microbus van. This is an air-cooled vehicle with minimal pipework. What does this tell us? It could mean that he's a supreme pragmatist and that his plumbing solutions would be elegant and minimalist. But I can't help thinking he's nervous about pressurised hot-water systems joined up with bits of tubing.

So on second thoughts, I'm not going out to ask him to look at my boiler.