The two of you pounce on the newly arrived Brico Depot catalogue and fight over who's going to read it with their cornflakes.
You can recite the names, dimensions, characteristics, qualities and prices of 276 shower trays, 198 taps, 17 sink wastes, 94 door handles, 8 shower doors (the only ones in the whole of France that (a) fit and (b) you like), 53 radiators, 148 floor boards and 7439 bathroom lights. From memory.
You read Maison et Travaux in bed. In fact it's all you do in bed.
Your calendar hasn't been turned over since March.
Your hands are multi coloured, multi textured, and covered in scars.
Your morning meditation consists of half an hour removing splinters.
You can discuss R values and U values as easily as once you talked about food, and you know by heart the cubic metreage of all your rooms, but you can't remember your phone number.
You no longer need to file your nails. The sandpaper does it for you.
You go out wearing your building clothes.
You never go out without a tape measure.
You seriously think about buying a white van.
You suddenly realise that it's nearly October and you haven't had a day off since the end of June.
You know all the staff at all the local brico outlets by name.
You buy fromage frais to make paint with, not to eat.
Your builder asks you to buy a buchon brut femelle, and you know what it is.