It’s on Saturday mornings that I miss London the most. We would get up and wander down to the Italian café on the corner and order coffee and almond croissants, still warm, the paste slightly molten. A pile of the papers in front of us, reading out bits to one another. Then flicking through Time Out figuring out which exhibition we might see; which new restaurant we might try; for which play or band we might book tickets. We might go shopping afterwards. Aidan is one of those unusual men who actually like shopping, not just for themselves (though he is a bit of a peacock) but for women too. In fact he taught me how to dress, hauling me out of my fail-safe wardrobe of black and grey suits for work and LBDs for evening. He’d drag me into the posh shops (me skulking behind his back, in mortal fear of the size zero shop assistants who – however much I told myself earned a fraction of my salary – still scared the proverbial shit out of me). He’d smile coolly at them, plucking things off the rails, summoning them with a glance to get ‘a decent size’ in this and this. They would obey, instantly, like over-eager collies, virtually hanging out their tongues and wagging their tails. He has that effect on women.

Sadly, Saturday mornings in the country are a less civilised affair. The postman delivers the papers – but not until lunchtime. There is no café. Grace would probably have a conniption if you suggested she stock croissants instead of Mother’s Pride. So we no longer linger over breakfast.

Last night’s mellow mood had continued but soon morphed into determined action. Aidan announced he was going to ‘see a man about some sheep.’ I gulped, visions of him returning like Little Bo Peep with a flock of filthy-bottomed ewes trailing behind him flashed through my mind. I hate sheep. Of all farm animals they are the worst, determined to kill themselves at any given opportunity. Given the slightest encouragement (or even none at all) they will roll over and let the crows pick at their eyes. Is there a disease they won’t succumb to? Someone once wrote a horror story, set in the Welsh mountains, about sheep. It was appallingly written but I understood the sentiment exactly. Sheep are out to get you.

But I bit my lip and got on the phone instead. The window cleaner was out so I tried to leave a message with what sounded like his great-great grandmother. Made a note to ring later as I couldn’t dissuade her that I wasn’t her niece from Bangor.
Then I tried the joiner. He was in but was about to go off lopping down trees – apparently he moonlights as a tree surgeon. He had the most delicious voice – low, well-modulated, every word considered as if he were being interviewed on TV. Definitely not a local boy. He knew the house and said he’d be happy to pop over, have a look, make a few suggestions. Only he couldn’t get over until Tuesday. Ah well, I can wait. What difference will a few more days make. If he’s anything like most rural workmen, he’ll pitch up Tuesday in about six weeks’ time.

I’m beginning to think our problem may be rats. Something is making all these noises and, if it isn’t ghosts (though how could a ghost make a noise being surely, incorporeal?) it must be rats. Or squirrels maybe. Anyhow, I’ll ask Ben the joiner/tree surgeon/house sorter/BBC news reader to take a look. Not sure what Aidan would do faced with a rat.
However, to cover all bases, I decided to try Faith’s suggestion and hauled out the salt crock and put blobs of salt (it’s damp in our larder – aren’t larders supposed to be cool and dry?) around the windowsills. Inevitably Aidan walked in and found me, hand outstretched, smoothing salt into a flat ribbon.
‘What in the name of heaven are you doing?’
Lucky I’d prepared for this. ‘It stops slugs getting in. Allegedly.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. They don’t open the window and slide in. Anyhow, it’s bad luck to spill salt. Attracts the devil.’ You can take the boy out of church-heavy public school……

I popped a pinch over my shoulder and put the crock away.

Turns out he’d had a very successful morning. His ‘chap’ was our nearest neighbour, about a mile down the lane. A farmer – Basher, Bodger, something like that, something reminiscent of Fantastic Mr Fox. A splendid chap, by all accounts, who’d insisted on Aidan having a ‘pot’ of his home-distilled (and wildly illegal) fire-water. Consequently Aidan looked a bit flushed and his eyes were wandering a bit.

‘He’s going to put his sheep on our lower fields when they’re done lambing,’ he said, trying to look knowledgeable.
‘Oh OK. Great. How much is he paying?’
Aidan looked, dare I say it……sheepish.
‘Ah. Well,’ he said, rubbing his nose, a sure sign of embarrassment. ‘Well, the thing is that field isn’t great grazing. But he’ll put the sheep on as a bit of a favour, being neighbourly like.’

I couldn’t believe it. There’s nothing wrong with that land for sheep. What a twister. But Aidan doesn’t like losing face so I made out he’d done well.
‘Good move. In some parts, they’d charge US for the grazing. Well done, love.’

Peace was restored.