I always felt that living the townie life was a lot more sheltered than mucking it out in the countryside. For a start, when we were only half an hour away from the Natural History Museum, a 4x4 was the perfect accessory, complementing my high heel shoes, as the clutch pedal is just right for them; the rear-view mirror amply reflects both the rear seats with 'de rigueur' squabbling children and my face, allowing me simultaneous last-minute makeup touches and the continuous ensuring that Pest n. 1 and n. 2 didn't draw each other's blood.

There were high torque gears, in that vehicle, which would have been covered in cobwebs through lack of usage has it not been for Mr Husband's religious and loving dedication to the car's appearances. One could not have felt safer, apart from the incumbent danger of having to share cabin space with two delinquents at the back.

Corner shops, safe fenced parks and even safer gridded ponds were within walking distance, although we never did any walking because there were just too many roads to tempt us.

There was a gardener, an odd-job man, a dedicated plumber, electrician and joiner whose numbers were on speed-dial, although we never had power-cuts, blocked drains (which would snake to the mains, of course, not some scary looking plastic well called a cesspit), leaking radiators or the need to build anything. In short, the cocoon was tied up in a knot of silky ribbon, the warm 'just-out-of-town' embrace.

Neighbours lived parallel lives behind their cherry trees and the occasional tennis court, never meeting for long enough to make any meaningful difference to our common isolation, and yet their proximity contributed to our perception of safety.

The countryside is harsher and cruder to city folks, challenging in a natural way and exposing the weaker joints of a family's body.

A week after we moved from a handkerchief of rose garden to two acres of weeds, I reached for the potatoes' basket in the kitchen, to select a couple for dinner. I was surprised and intrigued to see some completely unexpected and odd-looking scratches on their skins, as if somebody or something had dragged pointy teeth through the hard surface.

Of course, that's exactly what had happened. We had... mice.

A townie girl confronted with a mugger may have the presence of spirit to hang on to her bag, aim at his groins with her pointed boots and scream, safe in the knowledge that there will be plenty of passers-by ready to ignore her plight. The same girl, alone in the kitchen with the evidence of a mouse's passage, jumped on the straw chair, still holding the half-eaten potato. Annoyingly, there were no passers-by to ignore her.

War was waged promptly; I felt exposed to the invisible rodents, vulnerable to their nocturnal feats and raids, and yet rather worried about their own family arrangements. If it were a single hunter meeting his end in a trap, I could just about bear it. But what if it had a family behind the AGA? Would the babies all die waiting for their dad to come home with a scrap of potato?

I mentioned my concern to the local farmer's wife. She looked at me with bewilderment. 'What if it has a family?', she repeated the question as if she wanted to make sure she understood it.

'Yes. What happens?' I asked, stubbornly.

'Well, then you get them all with one single trap. Strike!' she shouted, making a very sharp movement with one hand hitting the outstretched palm of the other.

I whimpered. The closest I'd ever been to a mouse was when, as a child, I had a pet hamster.

Mr Husband shivered. 'Shall we call pest control?' he enquired; a very 'townie' reaction, I thought.

'No', I replied. 'They would come in their dirty boots and traipse all over the brand new carpets looking for holes or droppings, and positioning their industrial size traps everywhere, including the boys' toy box. We do it.'

The trap was set. The morsel stuck appetizingly on it. I was about to throw all the potatoes away when the farmer's wife tutted disapprovingly and told me sternly to place them on the compost heap.

'But we don't have one!' I cried. I missed London.