Unfortunately it’s turning out to be a lot more complicated and expensive than it looks in all those glossy house magazines. That will teach me to buy a Grade II-listed cottage that’s over three hundred years old. Thankfully, I had the damp in the front bedroom fixed before I moved in, so now instead of the giant mushroom, I have smooth, fresh pink plaster, all ready to paint. According to the advice I’ve read, it’s very important to have one room in your house that you can live in while the building work is going on.

I dig several pages of my list out of my bag and with a pen check off PAINT. The list keeps growing longer and longer, like the time the fax machine in the staffroom had some kind of glitch and started spewing reams of paper all over the floor. That’s showing my age. No one has fax machines any more, do they? I bet David’s new girlfriend has never even seen a fax machine.

‘Excuse me, where are the doormats?’

‘Sorry?’ I look up from checking things off my list to see a man staring at me.

‘I’m looking for a doormat.’

Literally, right at me.

‘Um . . . I don’t work here.’

‘Oh, OK.’

As the man moves briskly away, I feel my cheeks burn. Except, he didn’t get the wrong person, did he? If anyone knows about doormats it’s me. I was one. My husband ran off with someone young enough to be his daughter and what did I do? His ironing.

Still. At least I was the one who filed for divorce. Feeling like a doormat is one thing. Being the victim is quite another.

Face flaming, I negotiate my way towards the checkout. It’s busy and there’s a long queue. It was a mistake coming at the weekend. I edge slowly forward. In fact this whole thing was probably a huge mistake. I mean, seriously, if I’m going to uproot my life and try making a fresh start, shouldn’t I be gadding about Bali on a spiritual journey? Or renovating a Tuscan farmhouse in the sunshine and meeting lots of handsome Italians? Isn’t that what divorced women of a certain age do in the movies?

Except I’m not in the movies. I’m in Homebase.

Grabbing the shopping divider, I begin unloading my overflowing trolley onto the conveyor belt. I didn’t buy a farmhouse in the rolling Tuscan hills, but a damp, mouldy wreck of a cottage in the Yorkshire Dales. All those self-help books I bought talk about fresh starts and new projects – why didn’t I learn a new language or take up baking my own sourdough? Why didn’t I just rent and stay in London? It’s not like there was much risk of bumping into my ex, as he’s living on the other side of the city, and I could have avoided certain mutual married friends.

Actually I didn’t need to avoid them – they’ve already avoided me. That’s the thing with divorce. Married people fear it’s contagious, like the measles. If David and Liv could split up, who might be next? When David first walked out, my girlfriends were brilliant and rallied round. There was lots of David-bashing and wine being drunk. But after a while the texts and the WhatsApps and the phone calls trickled away. Once the shock is over, friends get on with their own busy lives and assume you’re getting on with yours.