Something else you’re not going to believe. Ben Armstrong is my builder. Yes. That Ben Armstrong. He’s changed a lot. Married with a little boy now, called Stanley, and owns a building firm. A really successful one too, by all accounts. I’ve hired his firm to renovate the cottage – but, oh my, I had no idea what it’s like living with builders.

The renovation is coming along, though we’ve had to alter a few things, as some of the original plans weren’t passed. At first I was disappointed, but now you know what? I’m actually pleased. My friend Valentine is always saying you never want to erase the past, and it’s made me look again at what I saw as negatives and view them as positives. To stop beating myself up about its imperfections, and celebrate them. A bit like life, I suppose.

What I need now, though, is someone with an artistic eye. I wish you were here to give advice. You’re so amazing at all that. I need help on the colours. When I first moved in, it was so dark I wanted to paint it all white, but now I’ve completely changed my mind and want colours and prints and fabrics. What do you think of Hippo Pink? Isn’t that a great name for a paint? Or what about Silhouette for the skirting boards?

OK, I’m getting carried away. It’ll be weeks until I get to that stage. It’s currently a building site! Still, you know me: I like to be organized.

Miss you. x

Sleeping Arrangements

He snores. And he farts. And he kicks me when he dreams. Quite hard sometimes. I’ve even got a few bruises. He takes up all the bed, so I wake up to find I’m teetering on the edge. He tosses and turns all night long. I don’t get a wink of sleep and wake up feeling exhausted.

I swear it’s like being married.

‘Right, that’s it.’

After yet another sleepless night, I prop myself up groggily against my pillows and eye Harry sternly.

‘Something’s gotta give.’

Stretched out full-length across the duvet, Harry briefly raises his head and looks at me drowsily, before letting out a huge yawn and flopping back down again to fall straight back to sleep.

After dropping Harry at Valentine’s, I drive into town, ten miles away, the plan being to buy Harry a new basket – one he’ll hopefully sleep in, rather than eat. We’ve been living together for several months now and it’s time to stop making allowances and feeling guilty about telling him off. I need to start being firm and laying down some proper ground rules, otherwise I’m never going to get another wink of sleep.

On arrival, I discover it’s market day and people are out in droves. May has brought with it some warmer temperatures, and the high street is busy with stalls selling an array of locally made things: hand-carved wooden bowls, wool blankets from the neighbouring mills, soy-wax candles and divine-smelling soaps, plus the most gorgeous sheepskin rugs, in all shapes and sizes. I decide to buy one for Harry. They’re so big and warm and fluffy – this will be a perfect alternative for him. Much nicer than a basket. He couldn’t possibly not want to sleep on it.