It's the century's remedy/For the faint at heart, a new start...

Over the weekends, visiting my sister at university, I got to stay in a 17th century thatched cottage with thick ochre-painted walls, sloping floors, exposed beams and a tiny staircase. I had not been so excited for a long, long time.

Apparently the countryside
has washing machines too these days.

For all my life, I've lived in a city. My idea of villages and country life is about 300 years out of date, having been gleaned from Alison Uttley books, Loreena McKennit songs and the Constable print that used to hang in my grandmother's toilet. The bemusing reality then was Tesco lightbulbs, pitbull terriers and perma-tanned women driving Nissan Micras at 100mph down high-hedged lanes.

I was sort of relieved to realise that the smell of manure is the same no matter what century it's being spread.