‘Sort of . . .’

Pushing my trolley up and down the endless aisles of a big DIY store probably isn’t what Naomi has in mind by ‘lovely long walks’, but I don’t want to disappoint her.

‘Lucky you. I bet the scenery’s stunning, isn’t it?’

I pause by the display of matt emulsion, lit by the flickering overhead fluorescent lights.

‘Stunning.’

Since moving to the countryside I’ve discovered that I can’t get a mobile phone signal inside the cottage; according to my network provider, I’m in a ‘black spot’. Translated, this means I have to stand right at the top of my garden where it borders open fields, almost freezing to death, while waving my phone around like a demented lunatic to get even half a bar. Meanwhile I still don’t have any Internet, due to a delay with the engineers.

Which is why I’m multitasking. While Naomi fills me in on some gossip at school, I gaze upon the vast array of paintbrushes – all different sizes, varieties and prices. I pick one up, running my thumb over the bristles and trying to decide whether I should go for the 50mm synthetic hollowfibre or the 75mm cutting-in and framing with the raw timber handle, before spotting a whole section dedicated to rollers and feeling even more overwhelmed. I only wanted to paint the front bedroom.

‘So, have you met any hunky farmers yet?’ she asks, finishing telling me about an argument in the staffroom over mugs. Teachers can be very territorial over their mugs, and apparently the new deputy head and supply teacher had nearly come to blows over a ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ mug.

‘Er, hello, what Catherine Cookson novel are you living in?’

Naomi laughs throatily. ‘Well, you never know.’

‘No. Trust me, I do. And that is the last thing I’m looking for.’

I chuck in a few brushes and a roller.

‘Look, I better go.’

‘Yeah, me too, I’ve got to get Ellie to football. Enjoy your weekend!’

‘I will – you too.’

Hanging up, I shove my phone in my pocket and eye the bucket of white emulsion. If only Naomi knew the real truth. And being careful not to put my back out, I squat down, grab the handle with both hands and, with a loud grunt, hoist it into my trolley.

OK, so the real truth is that, since moving in, I’ve not even had a sniff of fresh air or scenery. Rather I’ve been pulling up moth-eaten carpets and taking them to the local tip. It was a gruesome job – God only knows how long they’d been down, but there were enough mouse droppings, spiders (dead and alive) and silvery slug slime to give I’m a Celebrity . . . Get Me Out of Here! a run for its money.

I’ve also been busy getting quotes from local building firms and wading through all the necessary paperwork, plans and permits needed to do the renovations. I’ve had an architect draw up plans, involving knocking through to create a more open-plan living area, adding a new kitchen extension and downstairs loo and installing a log-burner, while upstairs, although the bedrooms are a decent size, I need to somehow transform the poky bathroom.