But he’s already retreating back into his garage. I watch as he disappears, then set off walking. Despite my hangover I suddenly feel quite cheered up.

I hug the bird feeder to my chest all the way home.

STAGE 3

Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda

The Bombsite

I can think of lots of words in the English language to describe how it feels to be living in a nightmare. Different adjectives to describe terror and fear and horror. As a teacher, I used to tell my creative-writing students to imagine that sinking dread you feel in the pit of your stomach. The sickening clutch of anxiety in your chest. That feeling of panic.

However, come the beginning of April, I learn four new words: Got. The. Builders. In.

They arrived first thing. The peace and quiet of a morning in the Yorkshire Dales was broken by the sounds of the van pulling up outside and the radio blaring. Ben was first through the door, all smiles and cheerful banter, followed by two younger men in overalls, whose names I didn’t quite catch as they were eating bacon butties, which immediately endeared them to Harry. Some guard dog he’ll be.

Still, I was trying to be positive. Fresh start, and all that. The plans had finally been passed and the cottage was going to be amazing when all the work was done. So I busied myself making them cups of tea, while trying not to fuss about their muddy footprints through the living room as they brought in their tools, dumped them all over the place and cranked up the radio. I was a bit nervous, but I told myself not to worry. Not even when Ben pulled out a massive sledgehammer. After all, in London people were always getting the builders in. My old street used to be full of skips and scaffolding. It was going to be fine.

It is not fine.

It’s a nightmare.

Several hours later and I’m hiding upstairs with Harry in my bedroom, which I’ve now renamed the Panic Room. Not only because it’s the sole safe sanctuary in the house away from all the banging, crashing and thumping downstairs, but it’s also the room where I’ve gone to panic. As the cottage shakes, I can’t stop myself wondering what I’ve done, while my brain tries to wrap itself around the alarming fact that this is going to be my reality for the next few months.

When, after several hours, I finally pluck up the courage to venture downstairs, the first thing I notice are clouds of dust and a layer of dirt over everything. The second is there now appears to be a gaping hole, and I can see straight into the kitchen from the hallway.

‘Um, hello.’

Music is blaring from a badly tuned radio and someone appears to be singing along to it, off-key. Tentatively I peer my head around the doorframe, to be greeted by a scene of chaos and rubble. I can’t quite believe this used to be my kitchen. It’s already unrecognizable. Ben spots me and stops whacking the wall with a sledgehammer.