I was never comfortable in Mr Husband Material's house, lovely and elegant as it was.

The first time I drove there, I pulled up the gravelled drive, in the middle of which he was standing, smiling and waiting.

I wound the window down and asked: 'Is it ok if I park here?' He looked puzzled. 'Yes, of course. Why shouldn't it?'

'Well, what about the neighbours there, and there?' I said, pointing at two sets of windows and another porch.

'It's all one house, Emma', he replied, bemused.

One house! Beautiful without being crass, and tastefully furnished. I noticed that it was clean and tidy too; odd, for this was the house of a divorced single man. It appeared that Mr Husband Material liked to do and look after things properly, no matter how uninteresting or outside his area of expertise and responsibility.

The problem, of course, was not the house itself, but rather the significance of it, and the lives which had been panning out inside it. It was not just Mr Husband Material's house, as it also used to belong to Mrs Ex- Wife.

In it, I felt like a guest spending a nice weekend away from home. Even when the weekends became weeks, the feeling of suspended familiarity never left me. It was her decor, her choice of wallpaper, her bathroom and even photos; lumps of an ex-life from which Mr Husband Material could not tear himself away.

I lived with the ghost of a failed marriage, and so did the Suitcase-Children. Promises and plans to move were quashed by my pregnancy. The first, then the second. People have an inbuilt mechanism of self-defense which smoothes the sharp edges of anything unjust if one lives with it long enough. It is as if we could somehow anesthetize ourselves in order to survive lengthy operations.

Nevertheless, the day would come when the overdue awakening stirred one's soul up, and prepared it for the necessary changes.

By then, Mr Husband Material had graduated to Mr Husband, passing his exams with flying colours. Mr Bastard was just a speck of faeces in my life's windscreen. I had never worked in an office again.

Suddenly, the driving force for the change came from unexpected quarters. I liked to wallow in self-pity and moan about Mrs Ex-Wife's collection of papier-mâché ducks, the lack of space in the house for the younger brood, lack of parks in the area, and my inability to make friends with other mothers; social interaction with them being somehow stuck between unadulterated bigotry and a fond general interest for comparing babies' nappies, eating habits and school results.

Mr Husband does not moan. Ever. Like most men, he does not care to perform regular biopsies on one's sorry life, discussing problems and analysing their nature, lifespan and potential outcomes. 'Right. I have had enough of this. We are moving.'

That's what he said, one day, after yet another commute to London, twenty miles away and two hours down the road. Or perhaps it was after the neighbours hosted another colourful religious party complete with the biggest marquee ever seen this side of Buckingham Palace, hired to fit their garden, and big fireworks celebrating cultural diversity into the night.

And that's exactly what we did, six months later.

Before, it was the elegant, perfectly proportioned Victorian house in posh London suburbia. After, it was the large, sprawling, decadent and cold Georgian farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. A sportscar became a pick-up truck. Modern Art courses for five-year-olds were swapped for acres of green; locks on gates, for open rolling countryside. And mice in the kitchen.

I don't suppose that once loneliness has nestled well and truly into one's heart, it shifts with the change of scenery; although our current home is a nicer place to be unhappy.

At least all the neighbours are friendly, do not use fireworks - not even little petards for New Year's Eve - and we know their names, surnames, phone numbers, email addresses and drink preferences: out here social life revolves around the AGA and the pub, tucked away down the lane which becomes too muddy to use, after it has rained for a couple of hours.

All neighbours are friendly. Especially Mr Vroom, of course. My email must have touched the right chord, because - albeit very slowly and timidly - he seems to have resumed our previously regular correspondence. It could be, of course, my naked appearance over the fence and beyond the bottom of our garden a few nights ago. I suspect that I shall never know for sure.

He has even started tending the mole traps in my vegetable patch again. We have not caught any of the critters yet, but I like to inspect the shiny prongs sticking out from the moist soil for signs of a prey fatally squashed underneath.

Not the most romantic subject to use in order to lure a man into temptation, I grant you.

'Hello, Mr Vroom. I'd like you to come and inspect my shiny prongs, please. Do they stick in properly? Any sign of our furry friend down there?

Mr Vroom, though, like the land, lakes, cattle and lavender fields around here, belongs to nature, so he may not mind a bit of muck. In fact, today I took Pest n.1 and n.2 for a bike ride across the fields, over the bridge and down the canal, a route which necessarily forces us to come by his house, and there he was, tanned arms greasy to the elbows with engine oil and ripped jeans, busying himself around a beautiful vintage Jaguar.

'My, Mr Vroom, what a lovely car you have', cooed my boys.

'It's to draw your mother's body close, my children', growled the wolf.

Except it didn't, of course.

I felt a sharp twinge of desire in my groins, one which I have grown accustomed to as just another sign of my sexual frustrations. I pedalled harder and faster, and felt his eyes on my bare, insect-bitten and weed-lashed legs.

'I was wondering whether I could drop in for a chat tomorrow, Emma', he called after me, with that public school accent which sends shivers up my spine.

Perhaps he is Little Red Riding Hood, after all, not the wolf.

'Of course, Mr Vroom. Make sure you bring some flowers, bread and home-made jam', I muttered under my breath.