THERE are many things I would have loved to have done at the weekend. It was a glorious day, and the beach beckoned. But no – we were impervious to its allure.

Assembly Bangers at the Hawkins Arms – a musical conclusion to Probus Fun Week – was so appealing, I’d marked it in my diary. The national trend for the middle-aged to go dewy-eyed to the strains of Lord of the Dance – an official tour has sold out in several major venues – is a subject for a whole column in itself.

Still no. Instead, we spent one of the nicest weekends of the year indoors, breathing in the fumes of gloss paint. Because – drum roll, please – we are having a new carpet fitted. Praise be!

We were probably not alone in our endeavours. Research carried out by home and garden PR agency Unhooked Communications revealed a growing trend of “improve, not move”; one in five homeowners would like to move house but find it financially unfeasible, so are investing in their current homes instead, with one third focusing on decorating, a fifth on landscaping the garden and 12 per cent laying new flooring.

We moved into our home 12 years ago, and still have the same beige carpet the previous occupants laid throughout the entire house. Actually, we still have the sofas they left behind too. And the bedroom curtains.

The Other Half decided enough was enough, and that new flooring at least was in order. His decision was vindicated when a cheerfully outspoken friend told us the existing carpet “had seen better days”. This blistering critique was softened by his endearing Romanian accent and the fact he was hardly telling us something we didn’t already know.

We chose a new carpet – golden yellow, the mellow colour of summer sunflowers. Daughter has yet to see it and pass judgment, but experience tells us it will likely be harsh; we are all awaiting delivery with mounting trepidation.

We set the date sufficiently far ahead to allow time for a teenage sleepover and full-on decoration. It’s easy to overlook how yellow your white skirting boards have become, how encrusted with a seemingly indelible layer of grot, until you have a lovely new carpet on the way, and you realise its beauty will be somewhat compromised by its tired surroundings.

Moving furniture revealed places where insects go to die, a very cosy death by all accounts in a deep, springy mattress of fluff. Behind the TV was a sight to behold.

It was also an opportunity to declutter, or at the very least take stock of how much stuff we own, a good deal of much serves no real purpose. A few weeks ago, I wrote about the art of the Swedish death clean. I now realise more than ever that I really should take my own advice.

Come the weekend, we stocked up on paint, brushes, rollers, masking tape. I did this via easyfundraising.co.uk in a bid to raise some funds towards Daughter’s 2026 Tanzania trip, and got a grand total of 33p (pending). Whoopie-doo.

It was all hands to the pump – even Daughter. After all, painting has to count as one of the most fun and satisfying aspects of decorating (in contrast, we don’t talk about wallpaper).

She appeared in a lovely pair of trousers bought with my money during a recent trip to Hong Kong. “You need to wear something you don’t care about,” I reminded her. “I don’t care about these,” she replied.

There followed a heated debate during which it became apparent that even the act of decorating the living room in the presence of only your parents needed to be carried out with some semblance of sartorial elegance. I won, but only by offering some of my own clothes, which were accepted begrudgingly.

It was everything out. Our lovely conservatory is now full of junk, and getting through our house is like navigating the Crystal Maze; the cat hardly knows whether he’s coming or going. I write this epistle surrounded by the photo albums and paintings that have decamped to my home office.

We spent the afternoon reenacting scenes from classic British comedy – think Norman Wisdom, or The Plank with Tommy Cooper and Eric Sykes. Doors were opened to panicked yells from ladders behind them. Paint was spilled and trodden throughout the house. Daughter got brilliant white (emulsion, thank God) on her favourite trousers despite numerous warnings.

The heat helped the paint dry quickly, and we eagerly await the ceremonial laying. I might hire in some trumpets for a fanfare, or just play Copeland very loudly (I’m sure the fitters/neighbours won’t mind).

It all looks ansum – and let’s face it on a sunny Sunday in August, the world and his mother would have been at the beach, and parking would have been a nightmare.