As you see, I’ve been playing with settings, and have opted against ragged edges, probably because I’m thinking ‘tidiness’ at the moment.

I’m being interviewed later this morning – something to do with the Scottish Health System. What this means, in practical terms, is that I have to fly round the house wielding cutting-edge technology like vacuum cleaners and polish, in order to haul the place above the dysentery line. I can’t begin yet, as, unlike others in the building, I believe it is extremely unkind to impose one’s domesticity (even such rare, shy species of domesticity as mine) on others, before the clock has reached double figures.

I wish I was naturally tidy. I can think tidily, but I can’t live tidily. Bank statements, bills, letters and papers are all filed methodically; I can lay my hands on just about any book I own with the minimum of fuss; but flat surfaces act as petrie dishes for everything else. Put a newspaper on a table and within 24 hours there’s a veritable syndicate of them; pencils replicate the behaviour of meerkats; slip off a pair of shoes, and immediately they breed and interbreed – and, if left undisturbed, sandals evolve into wellies.

I’m sure this failing is something to do with my upbringing. Not, I hasten to add, because I was brought up in midden, but because I was brought up in a house bursting with cupboards, and, with the exception of the occasional cull, providing a room looked tidy, what went on behind cupboard doors was not spoken of.

Here, however, I have a cupboard or two in the kitchen, one in the bathroom, which is mostly full of immersion heater, and a press in the bedroom. There are two sheds in the garden, but since they leak and tend to be raided by the bored and the mean, they don’t count. The upshot: there are too few cupboard doors, so the lawnmower, bicycle and cat basket can only be stored in the hall, while certain objects (the teapot, for example, and the hairdryer) have no option but to develop a Bedouin lifestyle.

This morning’s task, then, is to ensure that one room looks inhabited yet habitable, and that the path to that room can be negotiated even by those without commando training.

There will be serious repercussions, since only a few events precipitate tidying up, and, as far as the dog and cat are concerned, none of these has anything to recommend it. For reasons I have yet to determine, I am programmed to tidy up for burglars. As a result, I tend to develop an acute case of domesticity the night before I go away. For example, the hall is cleared to ensure intruders can get in and out easily; the bathroom is scoured and clean towels are laid out in, case they feel the urge to shower. Both animals recognise the symptoms, and firmly believe that cleaning heralds The Kennels. The cat takes the first opportunity to leap through the window and disappear into a foxhole in the garden; the dog mopes.

Consequence: by the time this morning’s interview about the health service takes place, I’ll be exhausted and cross after a bout of high-velocity housework; the cat will be heaven knows where, and remain there long after the all clear has sounded; and the dog will skulk under tables and beds. My opinion really is not worth all this.