Playing cat-and-mouse with rodents in one's own house is not the only challenge facing ex-townies who have left 'Zone 6' tickets behind them. Urban activities seem so much more intellectually driven than countryside ones; there are lectures to attend, exhibitions to go to, events to enjoy. Even in the new-mother stage of a woman's life, when days and weeks seem to roll out on pram wheels and feed on soggy rusks, outer stimuli draw-in the individual, claiming personal involvement.

It is as if there were a pre-fabricated existence around us which we are compelled to contribute to. The socialist soul of capitalism: one is expected to join in, in order to define their social worth.

Life around haystacks and converted barns, however, feels like it's driven from within: one is continuously reminded of our need to self-cater; time is soaked up by people's efforts to meet nature on its terms and grounds. Crucially, physical labour of any degree necessarily leaves too much time to think.

I suppose my fascination with Mr Vroom stems from his ability to be self-sufficient in a wholesome, hearty way; and yet the occasional glimpse into his own frailty confirms to me that I am not alone in feeling fragmented.

Strip reality of its glad-rags, and one faces life's raw and sparse inevitability. I used to think that if my four-year-old wore blazer and tie at school, somehow he would learn more and better than if he went in a simple polo shirt; that the garden would look prettier if qualified green-fingers tended to it; and that employing somebody to put your tapestry up the wall will yield better results than managing to do it all by yourself.

The 'awakening', however, has not solved diametrically opposite forces tearing me apart from within. I can see that Mr Husband's perception of reality continues to be exactly the same as it was before we had children and, more recently, before we moved: he has his job to define him as a person, a constant value in the equation of his life.

The move may just be the catalyst of a longer-term process of continuous dissolution of my identity: I have energetically adopted the necessary alterations but appear to have lost my grip on my marriage and life as I saw it.

Progress has been steady and sustained, of course. Emma of old blubbered the first time inspection of the trap revealed two little legs sticking out from under the vice. I wore two pairs of plastic gloves before facing the task of removing the carcass, but let out a high-pitch scream when, as I lifted the trap, said little legs started kicking furiously. I left the mouse to its fate for a day or so, having managed to put the trap and its live contents outside.

Two weeks later, my hatred of mice had multiplied exponentially. I no longer felt sorry for my victims but sadistically rejoiced every time I caught another one. Gone were my reservations about hungry little baby mice awaiting their dad's return.

The farmer's wife was very proud of me.

Farm life hardens people; and yet it has made me more receptive to flights of fancy. It is difficult to feel sexy when turning out the rotting contents of a compost heap the necessity of which I eventually succumbed to.

One has to escape somehow: I miss our regular cyber-chats with Mr Vroom, because he spoke to the thinking Emma, not the rat-catcher.

Still, the power of my resilience is rather inspiring. So determined I was to use Mr Vroom's forlorn and forgotten ladders without their owner that I persuaded my urban Mr Husband to help.

Being the sensible man, Mr Husband plotted out the exact measurements and precise spots where the hooks for the tapestry rod should be positioned. I then climbed up some three or four metres high from the ground, brandishing hammer and nails. Forgot the hooks. Went back. Forgot the tape measurer. Climbed down again. Dropped the nails. Swore in a very un-ladylike manner. Stepped up one more time.

Mr Husband held the ladder and sniggered.

Once the picture hooks were in place, it became apparent that we really needed three people to finish the job: one to hold the rickety ladder; one (me) light and agile enough to climb it without falling off it and further down the steep staircase; and a third person to hold one extremity of the rod from the top of the banister whilst I hooked the other one in place, two metres away.

For a while, we seemed blasted by the dilemma, scuppered by physics and teased by a stupid tapestry. Mr Husband suggested we employ the odd-job man to finish the task. Again, the townie option.

I have lived the countryside reality long enough not to allow this kind of puzzles to beat me.

Sometimes suits blur your judgment.

I tied some strong string around the rod's ends and created a system of pulleys to lift the tapestry in place, effectively cutting out the need for a third person.

I cut out Mr Vroom.

It was a cathartic moment. As we managed to hang the tapestry on the wall, I hooted like a teenager watching his favourite football team win against all odds.

Even in the countryside, one might manage the occasional victory of mind over matter.

And sod Mr Vroom.