I took a deep breath. After a long, somewhat dispiriting search, I was standing in front of what I felt sure would be the house from my Dream List. Or, to be more truthful, the closest to the Dream House that fit my budget. The end of a row of three terraced cottages, the duck-egg blue front door stood one large paving slab back from the pavement. The external walls were freshly painted in a crisp white, and the honeysuckle clambering around the old-fashioned window held the promise of a thousand tiny pink buds.

Before I had a chance to knock, the estate agent opened the door with a formal smile.

‘Ms Tennyson, please come on in.’

Heart pounding, I stepped inside onto the oak floorboards, inhaling the scent of wood varnish, musty air and a million dreams. The agent led me into a cosy living room – more floorboards, white walls and a log burner set in a stone mantlepiece flanked with built-in shelving units – before showing me the kitchen-diner, the only other downstairs room apart from a tiny cloakroom and an understairs pantry. The kitchen, like most of the house, was styled in what the estate agent called ‘rustic charm with a contemporary twist’. This included more open shelving, a Belfast sink, giant oven and navy blue cabinets to contrast more white walls. It fitted a decent-sized table, and a door opened out onto the garden beyond. I tried to look thoughtful and composed, but inside I was hugging myself with glee.

‘As you can see, the current owners have done extensive renovations before deciding to sell. As well as all new fixtures and fittings, you’ve got state-of-the-art heating and electrics.’ He flicked on the under-shelf lighting to demonstrate. ‘The house is such a bargain because they’re in a hurry to sell. You genuinely won’t find anything close to this value locally. I’m expecting it to be gone before the end of the week.’

This was not entirely true. End Cottage was priced competitively, even for such a tiny property, but the main reason for this was that it was part of a ramshackle row of cottages at the edge of a rundown village in Nottinghamshire, whose unfortunate name of Bigley Bottom meant that house-buyers with the means to be choosy tended to overlook it in favour of nicer villages with prettier names.

Bigley Bottom was a perfect location for me, because the other reason why I could afford such a lovely little house was that as of last month, I’d been promoted to area manager for the brand new, not-yet-up-and-running Central Notts branch of ReadUp. This would require recruiting and then supervising a small team of reading coaches, as well as sourcing and working with my own reading clients. Unlike many of the local villages, Bigley Bottom had managed to hang on to its tiny library, which in my experience was the best place to set up base.