Billy the builder

In his gleaming, ultra-modern kitchen—all polished chrome and marble countertops—Billy the builder belted out "Time to Say Goodbye," completely lost in the moment. He was a man out of place, a proper working-class lad from a council estate now living in a flash house, and the house had swallowed him whole. His hi-vis work jacket was slung over a ridiculously priced designer barstool, and his worn-out work boots stood next to a pristine, white sofa. With his eyes shut tight and a tea towel clutched like a microphone, he was a one-man opera show, an unstoppable force of a man with a surprisingly good voice, unware of the rising chorus of giggles and shushing outside.

He hit the big crescendo just as the front door swung open and Suzy—his wife—and her friends and their gaggle of kids shuffled in, dripping from the torrential rain. The shopping bags slid to the floor with a wet thud, and the kids’ eyes grew wide. Billy, still in his own little world, finished with a flourish, his arms spread wide in a grand finale. He slowly pulled off his headphones, a blissful smile on his face.

The silence was deafening. He opened his eyes, and his smile froze. He stood there, a builder in a show home, a tea towel in his hand, facing an audience of soaking wet women and kids, all staring at him with a mix of shock, amusement, and a little bit of pity.

"Right," he said, clearing his throat and trying to regain some dignity. "Anyone fancy a brew?"