So then Granville hits back, pointing out that the energy cost of erecting the turbine will probably be greater than the combined output of the turbine over its entire lifetime, and while it might generate enough energy to light some of the fourteen bedrooms in Godminster Hall for a year, maybe, what was absolutely clear beyond a shadow of doubt was that the turbine – ‘I refuse to use the word “windmill” ’ – would spoil the vista of Hamble Hill, not to mention the ancient tree circle of Pens Clump – for ever.

During all this ding-dong – I remember Jesse Marlon saying something like, ‘Green is now. Green is getting it on with the sun. Green is making energy from the tides and sweet music with the wind,’ which makes me wonder whether he was chanting a poem or actually saying something sensible – all I can think is… bummer. I’ve just moved to one of the most beautiful spots, probably, on the entire planet, and now the local laird, this Dorset nob, is using his eco-credentials to ruin the views and shore up his annual income in one and the same fell swoop.

It has one immediate impact, though: I desist from trying to impress Lulu Bryanston, the gorgeous second wife, over the shirtfront of the Revd Wyldbore-Smith. I have been over-egging my literary credentials with a view to being invited to the GodLitFest (just one of the many annual literary festivals held in all mini stately homes, market towns and county capitals, not to mention Hay-on-Wye, Oxford, etc., etc). But, strangely enough, Lulu does not seem impressed at my glorious previous career as national newspaper columnist.

She just said, ‘Should I have heard of you?’ just like that old bat in the shop.

And when I said that I wrote about home life and so on she just shuddered and said, ‘Oh, I can’t be doing with any of that. That’s GENRE. I’m only interested in LITERARY fiction, like Zadie Smith, or that marvellous writer, who writes about how awful being a mother is, and how MARRIAGE is a form of MURDER – you know, that one… YOUNGER than you –’

I said, bleakly, ‘Rachel Cusk,’ and she squealed, grabbing my arm with her tiny white paw in excitement, ‘Yes! Rachel Cusk! I think she’s brilliant!’

Lulu then turned away from me to boast to Granville, who it turns out reads everything, to discuss the latest Philip Roth they’d both read. ‘When I’m reading, I always know when something is really good,’ I heard her saying to a rapt Granville, ‘because my nipples get hard!’