Two fires blaze in baronial fireplaces. Vast bunches of lilies perfume the air. Cath throws out her arms and gives a cry of pleasure at the sight of us, so I come forward shyly, and hand her the Peace Oil.

She thanks me profusely, crooks a finger to Maddocks and I just hear her say the words ‘raffle cupboard’ as a command as she hands over the precious greeny-gold vial. Then Maddocks returns with a tray of Champagne, and then Cath darts out.

Homemade parsnip and beetroot crisps, perfect cubes of polenta, melted mozzarella adorned with one deep-fried dark-green sage leaf and minuscule pork pies with crunchy pastry made with real suet are borne on two platters into the drawing room by Cath herself on her return, and handed round as casually as if they were Cheesy Wotsits.

Maddocks scurries around shifting glossy piles of this month’s key non-fiction hardbacks written by close friends of the Cobbs to make room for the platters, which are placed on a large footstool in front of the fire, within easy reaching distance, just how I like it.

A deep sense of well-being and comfort is stealing over me, and I try not to think about the fact that we still haven’t ‘done anything’ to Home Farm.

Ralph immediately rushes over to inspect the fire and bends over the log basket. He picks up a section of ash, sniffs it and sighs with self-pity. He still hasn’t recovered from the blow of discovering, when he took his log-shifter on wheels out to the woodshed, that Colin Watts, the log-man (and possibly the rumoured village rapist, according to Rose, which slightly puts paid to my plans for him and Ana) had come while we were out.

Watts had filled the barn to the rafters with soaking-wet new pine, full of water and sap. Ralph tried burning some on the fire in the sitting room but even the drier ones just sat there, mutinously hissing and steaming. Furious, he had called Watts on his mobile.

‘I know perfectly well how to make a fire, thank you, otherwise we would have frozen to death this winter, as we don’t have central heating,’ I heard him saying. ‘My question is, what possessed you to sell us two loads of new wet wood when you could have sold us two loads of dry, seasoned wood?’

Pause.

‘No, Colin, it DOES NOT burn if you lay the fire properly, as you suggest. I would go so far as to say that you have sold us two loads of flame-retardant logs. Your logs are so completely fire-resistant I’m surprised they haven’t tried to make cheap soft furnishings and children’s nightclothes out of them.’

Pause.

‘Colin, let me say this. There’s something nasty in the woodshed and do you know what? I know exactly what it is. It’s YOUR WOOD! Do you understand? So unless you bring us some nice dry wood, and take away the nasty wet, I will have no choice but to turn elsewhere for my…’ But then he stopped.