It is a wondrous thing to behold when the very mention of 'I'll pop round about 2.30ish' makes the scales (or possibly cobwebs) fall from one's eyes and one realises that one (I'm being posh today) lives in a pigsty.

Cue hoover, cue fluffy duster on stick, cue Marigolds (inc. treacherous one with leaky hole), cue shouting at dog to pick up her toys and put them away, cue giant black bin bag filing cabinet.

And, during exhausted biscuit and coffee pause between cobweb-sweeping and dirt-busting, I ponder on the inexplicable ability of sellotape, that was supposed to hold up Christmas decorations but repeatedly dumped them on the floor. It has managed to sustain a limpet-like unwanted hold on wall for at least three years, and sneakily have a secondary career of fly-catching.

But with yay-ness and zippetydoodah galore, it was worth it. For I have sold my faithful old bike. It went for a song but at least I know it has gone to a good (and almost certainly tidier) home.

And the fact that the purchaser didn't venture beyond the doorstep, makes no difference. I am my mother's daughter and I won't risk the village gossiping about Ellie Slutty Homeowner.