7 March

I’ve just had the window cleaner round. Actually, I may as well have written that the window cleaner has moved in. Sorry to disappoint you, but there’s no steamy scene with an open bedroom window coming up (you haven’t seen him; I have). He just wouldn’t go. He’s only been once before, having recently taken over the round and was a bit over-friendly then, but this was ridiculous. And before you rush to judge me, I’m not coming over all Margot-from-the-Good-Life and thinking that the tradesmen are getting uppity. I have no problem with being friends with the window cleaner at all; it’s just that he’s odd. Very odd. Last time we met he did strike me then as a bit of a stereotype of himself, an archetypal cheekie-chappie with a ladder and bucket. I was dashing out at the time, however, so didn’t have much of a chance to chat. Today, however, he was in the mood to talk and I was the captive audience. He came in while I tried to find some cash to pay him (I’m ashamed to say that this once again involved rooting through my son’s piggy bank), and he was immediately off, wandering through the house and commenting on the bits he liked and the bits he didn’t. I ended up following him around the house, lamely holding out his money and hoping that I could eventually steer him, like a sheep dog with a stray lamb, towards the front door. It didn’t work; he had found my son’s bedroom and spent an inordinate amount of time looking at the Star Wars toys and rambling incoherently about the films. Why am I so hopeless in these situations? I had a fixed rictus grin on my face as I tried desperately to interrupt him. I eventually managed it and explained that I was a bit pushed for time and had to go out. I was terribly polite and apologetic but he still reacted as if I’d been brusque and rude and was ejecting him from a dinner party or something. It does amaze me that mutual dependency in the countryside can mean these really quite intense relationships develop between virtual strangers. Not that I’m all that dependent on the window cleaner; I could always, I suppose, do them myself, but it is true that my life has become entwined with so many others since I’ve been here. I don’t think it’s just that I am home full-time now, because after my son was born and we still living in town, I was on maternity leave whilst we were renovating our tiny house, and I didn’t strike up these relationships then. Although in some ways we found it hard to break in to local life, people being fairly reserved in this area, get them into your house and you’re a goner. There always comes a point at which I’m fixed with a steely eye and a long story emerges; anything from the drama of lost loves and broken marriages, to more prosaic tales of medical complaints and sometimes, if I’m lucky, tantalising shreds of gossip. There are often some quite personal and brazen remarks about what we’re planning to do, our foolishness for taking it all on, etc. We’ve had people come round to give us an estimate for something and fall about laughing for the amount that we paid for the house (at least, what they know it was on the market for), or comment on the paint colours we’ve chosen. My husband and I aren’t good at coming back with robust remarks and generally stand around awkwardly while our home and lifestyle is inspected, and invariably comes up short.

I must admit, though, that when we first moved here, for a while we thought we’d accidentally moved to Toytown. The builder who was doing some work for us was called Mr Strong. We had a bit of a giggle about that and made some feeble jokes, only to then be introduced to the chimney sweep. He is called - and I promise you I’m not making this up - Mr Bristles. I suppose he couldn’t really have become anything other than a chimney sweep. The electrician, however, who helped rewire the house, let us down and in moment of rebellion had obviously veered from his ordained path. He was Mr Joiner.