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I’ve been quiet of late, but with good reason: Monsieur and I have been moving house and I am officially exhausted. Thanks to this draining yet worthwhile exercise my arms are about 5 inches longer, I sport myriad moving injuries (who knew that cardboard boxes could scratch and bite?), could snore through earthquakes plural and am fast renewing my expertise in rodent control. The good news is that the new gaff has a dream kitchen, the bad news being that it comes with resident mouse so I’m now the proud owner of not one but two sonic repeller plugs and a pair of hands covered in remnants of expandable foam.

The neighbours are friendly (honestly forgot that such people existed thanks to the insomniac nutters who shared our roof at the old place); they’re also a mine of information about the local fauna. In the new ‘hood we have fence-climbing foxes and a council that responds rapidly to wasp infestations. There’s enough bird life in our one small garden to entertain Bill Oddie for weeks, and food options are seemingly endless. We’re not only surrounded by supermarkets and food markets (a far cry from our old gaff between a pair of equally useless teeny Tesco’s), but we’re within easy walking distance of Mien Tay, Soif and a Recipease where I recently received a stern lecture on why not to freeze their ready meals. FYI I went ahead and froze not one, but three (hangs head in shame).

Until last week I never realised that making up and breaking down boxes could give you thumb strain. It’s also likely that I’ll watch the Olympics Closing Ceremony before I get the time to watch the Opening Ceremony, proving the necessity of catch up tv. On a different note the move has been surprisingly educational: I’ve learnt that foxes like houmous, mice enjoy oats and peanut butter and breed faster than rabbits, and there’s an archaic law where local churches can insist on your financial help for maintenance and repairs (or, Heaven forbid, rebuilding) if you live in a house where chancel liability applies.

Energy permitting, I hope to roast a chicken this weekend, for a house is not a home until a chicken has been served from its oven. With some luck I might just manage to get the rest of my clothes into some logical order, find time to fix my laptop and make a start on 3 weeks’ worth of ironing. There’s one thing you can bank on, however: I’m sure to go all Charles Manson on a certain mouse if it dares to show its tail in my kitchen again. Mouse eradication advice most gratefully welcomed. As Monsieur so encouragingly put it this morning, ‘Mouse: 1, Epicurienne: nul points.’ I’m only grateful that mouse-catching isn’t an Olympic sport.