Last Friday, I went out for the evening. When I returned, a monster was looming at the end of my road.

It was about the height and length of a medium-sized dinosaur or a single-deck bus. A long, dark neck rose almost 15ft from its shoulders and a large, gaping mouth hung over the pavement.

Was I scared by this fearsome apparition? Did I scream and run? Hell, no! I did what any right-thinking, middle-aged woman who hasn't been drinking would do. I resolved that if it hadn't been removed by Monday, I'd be in touch with the council. Then I flounced home to complain to The Mother.

"Well, workmen have to leave their equipment somewhere when they're repairing the road," she said tolerantly.

"There's equipment and there's equipment," I told her. "There are shovels and picks and there's huge multi-ton pieces of machinery like the monstrosity that's blocking my road."

"Your road . . . ?" said The Mother. "Since when did you take possession? As for machinery blocking the road, why does that concern you? You don't drive a car, so all you need to do is walk round it."

Unfortunately, I'd been walking round assorted pieces of digging/lifting/pounding and tarring machinery for almost a week and was feeling decidedly vexed.

When signs were put up warning everyone in my neighbourhood major roadworks were due to start in January, I didn't take much notice.

The road due to be given the makeover was a main thoroughfare running several hundred yards from my front door. It wouldn't effect me, I thought.

I was wrong. On the first morning, I discovered crash barriers had been erected down the middle and each side of the main road. No longer could I dash across to the shops opposite. Instead, I was forced to walk quite some extra distance to the traffic lights at the crossroads.

I also saw the bus stop had been moved, a row of temporary buildings erected on a neighbouring street corner and, worst of all, a sign had been unveiled at the end of my road telling drivers that here was a useful diversion to take.

Then there were lots of men in yellow jackets doing what men in yellow jackets always do: Several were conferring while one was digging.

Large machines rumbled and grumbled (you could hear them from my kitchen), including one I was destined to know well - a machine the size of a medium-sized dinosaur with a long neck and a gaping mouth. The mouth appeared to vomit tar into the back of a waiting lorry.

A couple of days later, I was at home waiting for a friend who had promised me a lift to the cinema. The phone rang. It was my friend on his mobile. Had his car broken down? No, he was sitting in it at the end of my road.

"Do you realise your road is closed?" he asked. "There's a sign here saying 'No Entry, Access Only'. Fancy a walk?"

And so it has continued, with local shopkeepers complaining they're losing business and everyone else muttering about the general inconvenience. Well, almost everyone.

Returning from a shopping trip on Monday, I saw The Mother standing with a couple of her cronies outside the bakery. They were smiling.

"Isn't this interesting?" The Mother said. "We've all been saying we could stand here for hours watching what's going on."

I sighed: "But don't you feel sorry for the chicken?" I asked. "You know, the one that wants to cross the road to get to the other side."