All right, it is an odd way to describe the cute country farmhouse nestled among a garden of Christmas trees that I’m imagining, and it is unusual that there isn’t a picture of it. ‘Maybe they thought the fact it needs renovation might put buyers off? Maybe it’s got, like, boarded-up windows and stuff and they didn’t think it added to the appeal so they left it out of the auction listing?’

‘Yeah, maybe.’ She sips her coffee in an attempt to hide the look of apprehension on her face. ‘I’m sure it’s not important. At least you know there’s a dwelling of some sort there. It probably just needs a coat of paint. I’ve got some spare Dulux in the shed if you want to take it with you?’

I love her for being supportive even though she thinks I’m a maniac. Even I think I’m a maniac. But it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I’m not sorry I went for it. I just hope I feel the same once I actually get there.

‘You might find your very own David Tennant!’ She squeals out loud at the thought and then ducks her head when several other customers turn to look at us.

Chelsea’s current sexuality could best be described as ‘David Tennant in Broadchurch.’ She and Lewis missed it on TV and have recently binge-watched the boxset. Their surname is actually Miller, and Chels has never found anything sexier than the way David Tennant says ‘Miller’ in the show, apart from the way he says ‘murder’. Even poor Lewis has been forced into doing impressions. I imagine that all their neighbours hear most days is them shouting ‘Miller’ and ‘murder’ at each other in bad Scottish accents. It’s a shame David Tennant isn’t actually a policeman because I’m sure someone would’ve called him by now.

‘Ooh, Richard Madden from Bodyguard. Now there’s a hot Scot if ever there was one!’

‘I’m not looking for a man, no matter how sexy or Scottish they may be. Steve was enough of a mistake for one year. I’m going to concentrate on Christmas trees for a while.’ I give her a false grin that she knows is false. ‘Seriously, Chels. Steve was the last straw for me when it comes to men. I need to learn the trade of Christmas tree farming, not lust after Scottish men. That’s my mantra from now on: no men, just trees.’ She goes to protest but I interrupt her. ‘Not even if Richard Madden himself turns up.’

She sighs like I’m a lost cause. ‘Just find me a sexy Scottish bloke who rolls his Rs and doesn’t mind saying “murder” a lot.’ She drags the R out like a cat’s purr.