Still, there’s a lot of hard work ahead. There’s the mouldy bathroom to tackle, floors to lay, walls to plaster and the log-burner to install. Plus a million other things on my to-do list. But sometimes, when I walk through a doorway and catch the evening light streaming through a window, or run my fingers over an old oak beam that’s been stripped back and oiled, I think how far we’ve come and I feel excited. Because it’s not just this old house that’s slowly been rebuilt and transformed over the past few months – it’s its owner as well.

‘So I’ve gone over the measurements and I’ve got a suggestion.’

Two weeks after the pub quiz I find myself standing next to Ben in my bathroom. It’s past six o’clock and the other builders have left, but he’s been looking at the plans and wanted to share an idea with me.

‘You can’t do a proper loft conversion – with this being a conservation area and not being able to raise the roofline – but you could still make a third bedroom underneath the eaves.’ He shines a torch into the open loft hatch, illuminating the dusty attic, which, thanks to my new bat-boxes, is no longer home to a family of pipistrelles. ‘It would be perfect for when your friend and her little girl come to stay. Much better than a tent.’

‘But they loved the tent!’

‘They wouldn’t love it so much if it was winter and raining – and it rains here a lot, trust me.’

I didn’t have to trust Ben. I’d seen it with my own eyes. There was a reason Yorkshire folk have so many words for rain.

‘But how do we get up there?’ I peer into the rafters.

‘Easy. We add a staircase up to the attic.’

‘Gosh, yes, I love that idea . . . But hang on, where do you put the staircase?’

I turn to look at Ben. He’s been working outside on the extension and his face is tanned.

‘Well, that’s the only downside. You’d need to take off this corner of the bathroom here, which would reduce its size.’

He reaches for the pencil that is permanently tucked behind his ear and draws on the plans to show me.

‘But then how do I fit in a roll-top bath?’

I gesture around my bathroom, with its avocado bath suite, dark-brown tiles and cottage-cheese ceiling. I’ve been living with it patiently since I moved in nearly six months ago – it’s the last on the list of renovations – but now I’m desperate to make a start on it.

At this point Ben does this thing where he scrunches up his face. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned during these last few months, this scrunching-up is not a good sign.

‘You don’t.’

‘In that case, no.’ I shake my head firmly. ‘I’d rather have a tent.’

‘You could have a lovely walk-in shower – much more energy efficient,’ he encourages me, but I’m steadfast.