I’m on the 7.58am train to London and someone is whispering a filthy story in my ear. It’s the lurid tale of an adulterous tryst in Paris. Threesomes, body fluids, basques, trouser bulges, spanking and unbridled passion – all before I’m appropriately caffeinated.
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I took ownership of the keys to the vicarage on Wednesday. My car was packed to the rafters, mainly with Diptyque candles, Iittala glassware – the essential stuff. Nic followed on behind with a vacuum cleaner, my carpet cleaner and Mini Puppy. I was very stressed. We all know that houses, stripped of furniture, look ghastly. I was prepared. I swore I would not cry or get depressed.