By Tom Rawstorne for The Mail on Sunday Updated: 19:04 EDT, 25 May 2008

10AM: The phone goes. It's the office. 'Hi, we've got a fun job for you,' they say. 'Great,' I say.

'You're good at DIY, aren't you?' they say.

'Well, you know, I've done a bit,' I say. Modest to the last.

'Well,' they say, 'Argos has launched a new, um, a new, err, shed and we'd like you to put it up.' 'A shed?' I say.

'Yes. A shed,' they say. 'A flat-pack shed.'

'OK. Fine.' I say. 'How long will it take, do you think? An hour or two? A day at most?'

'It's quite big,' they say. 'Give yourself a couple of days.'

Starting point: Four tonnes of wood lies waiting to be constructed

9AM: Chinese philosopher Confucius once noted that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

Deep, meaningful stuff. And so it is that when an articulated lorry pulls up outside my house in rural Kent at the start of my flatpack adventure I, too, mark the occasion with some suitably memorable bons mots .

'Are you sure that's all for me?' I ask, weak-kneed, as I take in the fourtonnes of wood loaded onto the vehicle. Warren, the driver, is sure. He's also sure the lorry won't fit through the gate into the orchard, where construction is to take place.

Instead, he has to resort to craning the six giant pallets over the hedge. It means every item has to be shifted by hand 100 yards to where the base has been constructed (it's meant to be concrete or compacted gravel, but I've opted instead for a lattice of hefty timbers levelled on concrete blocks).

At least I'm not entirely alone at the moment. Photographer Robin Mayes has turned up to record the feat for posterity. He's been chosen primarily, of course, for his skills as a lensman, but by fortunate coincidence he also happens to be built like a rugby prop forward. Straight back, bend your knees - and lift!

1PM: The enormity of the task begins to sink in. As per the instructions, we've decided to lay out the individual walls of the house on the ground next to where they will be erected.

Each wall is roughly 10ft high and comprises 20 six-inch tall wall boards. It takes three hours to unload and to lay out one pallet's-worth. It's carting the timber across the field that's taking the time.

Then I have a Eureka! moment. My wife's VW camper van is on the drive. I put down the seats, load it up with timber and then head off across the field. Success  -  the camper van completes its first ever journey without AA assistance.

Getting going: Tom Rawstorne sets to work on the cabin's walls

6.45AM: It's my daughter's birthday and I'm up early to erect a flatpack desk and chair. It should take me 15 minutes, but ends up taking an hour as two of the pre-drilled screw holes have been wrongly placed ('Yeah, right': the wife). The omens are bad.

8AM: Seeing the shed laid out in all its glory I wonder whether there might be some planning implications to this endeavour. Is it a house or is it a shed? While Argos states that 'its 44mm tongue-and-groove wall boarding provides additional strength, insulation and resilience to cope with extended year-round use' both they and the manufacturers, Finnforest, admit that in its current state it wouldn't meet certain building regulations, such as insulation.

Of course, that could be rectified easily enough, but a quick glance at my local authority's website indicates that the shed route might be easier to negotiate as they can be erected without permission under certain circumstances. One is that the buildingin question is no bigger than ten cubic metres. This one is a little over 50. What the heck, it's summer. The hedges are high and until the leaves drop, my nearest neighbour, the chairman of the parish council's planning committee, won't see a thing.

10AM: It's raining and the stickers that identify each timber are starting to peel off. This could mean trouble. Each wall has to rise simultaneously, the corner joints locking into each other in sequence to create a rigid, weather-tight construction.

The Helsinki features 12 walls in all, as well as five doorways and nine windows, spaces for which are created using shortened wall boards. Getting the pieces in place is a bit like a giant game of Tetris  -  a mental challenge, but also strangely satisfying.

7PM: The walls have now risen to above head-height. This is a great way of building. Not one nail or screw has been deployed and yet the structure is as solid as a rock. I build, therefore I am a builder.

Taking shape: Tom fits the cabin's windows and doors

8AM: A builder friend rings to ask how I'm getting on. He's heard about the 'shed' and warns that the council will be on to me like a flash. He tells me that they use satellite tracking to spot unauthorised developments.

I look out of the window at the Helsinki - the acres of untreated white wood I built yesterday give off an almost radioactive glow in the early morning sun. I set the children to work with a pair of scissors and a roll of silver foil - I will deploy this as chaff should there be any sign of overhead surveillance.

11AM: Having fitted nearly every timber - 250 in total - I'm on a ladder fitting the apex of Wall 3 into which one of the roof joists will slot. But what's this? I'm missing a piece! Instead of a C8 I've got two C9s.

OK, OK, I know I was supposed to tick off the parts as I unloaded them but who, other than a German, would do that? Being British, I do what the British do best - bodge it.

7PM: Walls are up and roofing joists are in place. This thing is a monster, 20ft tall, and much of the work from here on in will be on ladders. My wife comes to inspect, clutching a Farrow & Ball paint chart and asks, 'Might it have been easier to paint it first'? I grip the hammer tightly and laugh hysterically.

Finishing off: With one day to go, the roof goes on

7AM: I wake, physically drained, to find the car has a flat tyre. The wheel nuts are jammed on with rust. It's as though I'm in the middle of some sort of 'Man Challenge', in which my macho credentials are being tested and secretly filmed.

I half expect Ulrika Jonsson to appear, Gladiatorsstyle, and quiz me on how I'm getting on. Or worse, she might try to breed with me.

2PM: The roof goes on. Tongue-and-groove boards are nailed on to the joists on to which are tacked roofing shingles. The shingles are designed to look like individual tiles and once completed the building looks more like a house than any shed I've ever seen. Inside there is a small hallway, off of which lead two largish reception rooms. There is then a smaller room off at the back and a tiny, toilet-like cubicle.

The Helsinki, I am told, is popular as a home office, but has also been bought by some customers to provide overspill accommodation for relatives or grown-up, stay-at-home children.

8.30PM: Absolutely shattered, I finally hang up my hammer. There's one more day to go, and to get this thing finished in time it's clear that a number of shortcuts are going to have to be taken. In other words - sod the skirting boards and all the other fancy bits.

Home sweet home: The log cabin is finally finished

8AM: Down go the tongueand-groove floors. It's quick and easy clipping them together.

2PM: On go the front doors and up go the fascia boards to tidy up the roof. It's a race against time, as I'm determined to have this finished in time for a sundowner on the terrace.

5PM: The decking's down and all that's left is to fix the window boxes. That done, I regard my handy-work with pride. Damn it all, I think, I built this and no jobsworth will make me take it down.

I call the council planning department and tell them I've put a shed in my orchard. How big is it, they ask. Ten by four, I say, failing to point out that I'm talking metres, not feet. Is it for keeping tools in, they ask. Yes, I lie. . . Is that OK?

No, they say, not in an orchard, you'll need permission. I hang up, deflated and then have my second Eureka! moment. Why not just scale the thing down to make a treehouse for the kids and a summerhouse?

I recall several cases in which Romany gipsies have flouted planning laws under Human Rights legislation. I'm part Scottish and, in the south of England, surely that's minority territory. As Confucius would, no doubt, have said had he been around: 'Quick, get me a lawyer.'

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