That little dance around at the beginning that everybody knows. Antennae up looking for class resentments and prejudices on both sides. Then, if you are really lucky, something sparks a good feeling that turns into cautious trust.

The owner of a nice middle-class suburban home invites someone in, perhaps a whole string of people, with license to knock down walls, dig up drains, leave a house exposed to the elements for days on end and charge them tens of thousands of pounds for the privilege. And all based mainly on a gut instinct, with perhaps a few suspect online reviews to warm your hands on.

That cautious trust initially turns into something more solid. Plenty of tea and biscuits offered, gradually it becomes first names and then only-ever-so-slightly awkward conversations around topics that might just offer some common ground.

‘Did you see the game last night? Keith/Derek/Andy?’

‘I did as it happens.’

‘No midfield at the moment, have they?’

‘Always been the same.’

And so on.

Payment on time is a given. Weekly as agreed. And the work? On schedule. Starting to look nice. Isn’t it Keith/Derek/Andy.

Trust. Such a warm glow. Long-term lovers, your oldest friends, your teenage kids…builders doing a great job.

‘Hiya, were we expecting you this morning?’

The first day they don’t turn up, well, it’s just a misunderstanding. It’ll soon be back on track. Then the second, and the third and then the little extra costs that you weren’t expecting.

‘I thought the painting was part of the quote Keith/Derek/Andy?’

‘’Afraid not. ‘Course its up to you. You can get someone else in.’

Then the broken fence when someone drops a ladder. And no-one let you know. Then the simmering resentment. The slightly irked tone in a text. You don’t want to be seen to be a pushover. Posh tosser.

Twenty weeks in. Five days running and no-one comes. The patch of mold appearing on the ceiling.

A polite enquiry and a complete, slightly irked denial of any responsibility.

Twenty-five weeks in and it’s an all-out war of words that only the practiced cowboy can possibly win.

But this middle-class tosser has trust issues going way back. Burning, raging resentments from broken marriages and friendships to being left out of the team too many times.

He’d seen him once out with his dog up on the mountain. There was a good path through the woods when it hadn’t been raining too much.

Plan hatches. Mad plan? But got to get this out of the system. Eating away. Getting in the way of everything.

Reddit calls it ‘a snare trap’. Somewhere else shows how to do it.

Sunday the usual day for dog walking. Seems regular. Ten in the morning. Some hanging around but it will be worth it.

Rope laid the night before. By nine hidden ready to activate. Ten past ten. Here he comes and the dog is off the lead thankfully. Front foot into the circle and…hoist.

Fifteen stones dangling ten feet in the air.

‘Help. What the fuck is going on? Help….’

T-shirt rides up and big hairy stomach is revealed. A bonus. Loose change scattered.

The next dog walker breaks into a run. Can’t decide whether to laugh or act fast.

Exit middle-class tosser stage right.