Andy Richardson: Smart home? It's time to get a man in

The Rose's Lime cordial left his mouth like hot mud leaves a geezer: Whooosshh. He couldn't contain his laughter. 'Smart homes? You' The cordial spurted out of his mouth like water from a fountain.

I like my builder – and, of course, he's not 'my' anything, he's Tom, so let's stick with that, shall we. I like Tom because Tom is reliable and quick. He's honest and fair. He charges an amount that I can afford and that covers his time. He doesn't tell me my boiler needs to be replaced just because the pilot light's gone out, the way some do when an £85 call-out charge becomes a wannabe £2,150 bill.

Tom takes his shoes off when he comes in the house, even though the floor is wooden and easy to clean. When he's finished a job, he vacuums to get rid of any dust. And if he can save a little time or money on a job he does – and then, remarkably, he tells me. How about that? He's the good apple that kills all the builder clichés. He turns up time, finishes when planned and even washes up after his cup of tea. Or, in this case, Rose's Lime cordial.

Although Tom is a brilliant builder, the best thing about him is this: he tells the truth. Imagine that? A builder who says: 'Yeah, that's easy, won't take an hour.' rather than sucking air over his teeth, scratching his chin, looking ruefully at the floor and talking about joists, RSJ beams, anti-rat-laser-guns and load bearing walls.

I'm a little fearful for Tom. I fear I may have outed him as a man who is too honest. So I think we ought to change Tom's name to Paul, or Doug or Bipin. For he may well be kicked out of the Builders' Society For Higher Prices if others find out his true identity. The man who suggested a £2,150 bill – true story – probably wouldn't talk to him again. Poor honest Tom. Poor honest me.

Tom isn't planning on converting my home into a smart home. He says it's too far gone. The beautiful wooden floor that I started to install as an aide to relaxation is beautiful – but still unfinished, two years on. The kitchen which has the stunning solid oak doors still doesn't have any handles. Why would I put handles on them? The wood is too beautiful to be marked. Who cares if I can't reach inside for my jar of Loyd Grossman Jalfrezi Sauce. Who needs food when there's beautiful oak grain to admire?

And while Laurence Llewellyn-Double-Barrelled-Smarty-Pants probably has robots and gadgets that control the temperature from his smart phone, I'm still cleaning up the detritus that Storm Doris blew beneath my beautiful-but-impractical sash windows. Bad Doris. Why couldn't you have blown the other way?

Earlier this year, I spent a little time at the home of a TV chef. For four or five days, we cooked and chatted and did what writers and photographers and chefs do. Her kitchen is as beautiful and practical and stylised as something from the set of an ITV studio. It is Imm.Acc.You.Late. She looks beautiful in it. Hell, even I look beautiful in it. It is Caravaggio-like in its allurement.

There are shelves for pot plants, the spice rack contains jars of this and that – all with beautifully hand-written labels. There are Kitchen Aids and alchemist's gizmos for turning base ingredients into gold. She has an oojimmyflip, a whatsit and a thingamajig. The thingamajig is red, in case you were wondering. The taps both pour and shower. And the fridge is as wide as the Eiffel Tower is tall. It makes ice cubes with edible flowers while she's making herself look beautiful on the sofa.

And all I have is unfinished oak floors and draughty sash windows. Gah. I need to marry a man like her husband. Then my kitchen would be just as nice.

Tom told me what I need to do. He says I need to take a little holiday and finish my floor. Then I need to decorate the front room and get a plasterer to touch up the two pillars near the bottom step (it's an outdoor thing, don't worry, I don't live in a castle). Once that's done, I need to clear the guttering, mend the fence, replace the cracked garage door window and put a roll of draught-excluder beneath the sash. Then, if there's time, I should mow the lawn and settle down for a glass of Rose's lime cordial.

But I have a better plan. And it's this. Rather than slaving over jobs I don't want to do, I'll just get a man in to do it. That would be smart. That would be really smart.