It’s raining outside, and, shades of my mother’s Brontë country ancestry, through the faulty triple glazing pane, the wind’s wailing “Let me in through your window-ow-ow-ow!”. My husband, as one does on a wet winter’s day, is putting together a newly delivered garden shredder in the front room. This is a room that has in its time been a post office, a purveyor of seed and animal feed and our pottery shop – so it’s seen all sorts.
